Lord Heartless

by Tessa Berkley

  “Oh, she is that. My word, what better irony that might fuel poets and playwrights for centuries hence forth, London’s most eligible bachelor, a mere god among men, marries a beauty only to be scorned from the marriage bed.”

  His barbed remark struck much too close to home. “Black,” Landon warned.

  His solicitor tucked his chin close to his chest. “Forgive me, teasing is not my best quality.”

  “No.”

  “And where is the lovely Lady Montague this afternoon?”

  “She and the countess are at the dressmaker’s. We are going to the opera on the seventeenth with Scarborough.”

  At the mention of the name, Amos’s brows arched in question. “Opera. I see.”

  Landon ignored it and focused his gaze on the ceiling. “The countess accepted, not I.”

  Amos chuckled. “She will never let you out of this bargain, I fear.”

  “You may be right.”

  “Does the countess know that you have slept apart?”

  Landon stared down at his outstretched legs and studied the toes of his boots. “I do not believe so.”

  “You must do something for the longer those two women are together, the more she will probe. Like one of England’s best spymasters, she will discover the deception.”

  “I know. Lady Juliet has proved to be a challenge.”

  “You have had challenges before.”

  “True.” Landon sighed. “Yet, never before have I been married to one.”

  “Nor she and on such short notice. A young girl, no mother, spent her life secluded in rural England,” Amos droned on. “Put yourself in this frame of mind. If she were girl coming into her first season, how would you woo her?”

  “Woo her? We are wed?”

  “Ah.” Amos held up a finger. “Wed, yes, but in name only. You have in some ways put your cart before the horse. Now, Lord Montague, you must convince the lovely lady that she is the love of your life.”

  Landon ran a finger beneath his bottom lip. Amos had a point. Other than the conversation at Holly Grove and the few words spoken in the carriage back to Broadmoor, nothing had been said. They were almost strangers. God, he was a dunce. Slowly, he began to nod. “I believe your argument has valid points, Black, and I shall undertake to rectify this situation.” He rose from his chair. “A refill and we shall toast to my success.”

  ***

  “Done, milady.” Helen handed her the mirror.

  Juliet held it aloft to glimpse the intricate figure eight she had devised. “You are a wonder. I fear I could get used to this.”

  “As you should, milady.” Helen smiled as she picked up the clothes Juliet had worn earlier in the day from the bed.

  “Lord Montague was quite taken with your accomplishments this morning. I’m sure he will be just as pleased with your efforts this evening.”

  “Keeping your husband interested is the name of the game.” Helen turned away and hung the dress on the hook behind the closet door. “I will get this clean in the morning, milady. Shall I lay out your night dress?”

  “Yes, please. I will ring for you when I’m ready to change. Thank you, Helen. I was unsure when we first met, but I am very glad to know you are here to help me.”

  “Of course, milady, have a good evening.” Helen bowed her head and opened the door for Juliet to leave.

  Walking down the hallway, she watched as the afternoon sun took away the gloominess of the night. She paused to admire some of the portraits before moving down the stairs to the drawing room. Earlier in the day, the dowager had asked if she was accomplished in needlework. Juliet had admitted that she could knit. The dowager produced a basket of yarn and needles.

  Perhaps working on a shawl would settle her nerves. Opening the door, she was taken back to see Simmons in the room. Dust rag in his left hand, he paused and blinked.

  “Did you need the room, milady?”

  “I only wish to work on my knitting. Please, carry on.” She moved into the room and sat down in the chair next to the window.

  “I was just finishing, milady. Shall I light the lamp for you?”

  “Not quite yet.” Juliet brought her needles together. “How is young Alexander?”

  Simmons placed his rag in a wooden bucket and moved toward the door. “He is well, Lady Montague.”

  “Have you word if he is joining us for dinner tonight?”

  Simmons stopped. “No, milady, young Master Montague will be dinning upstairs this evening. It appears a cherry pie was pilfered from the kitchen this afternoon.”

  Juliet mouth quivered. “Do tell.”

  “Yes.” Simmons nodded with seriousness. “It seems not long afterward, young Master Montague came down with a rather sour stomach.”

  Juliet stopped and her hand moved to her lips. “Oh, no, Simmons is he all right?”

  “The doctor assures us that a quiet night and some light tea and toast will bring our dear young friend back to his charming self come morning.”

  “Oh my, I will check on him before I retire.”

  “No need, the nanny is with him now.” He opened the door and the grandfather clock in the hallway began to chime the half hour. “The countess usually returns to the drawing room by five.”

  “Thank you, Simmons.” Juliet smiled as he nodded and then left. Alone in the room, she concentrated on the movement of stitches as they crossed, sliding one stitch on to the other. She brought the yarn over and let her thoughts drift to the conversation with the dowager. Keep Landon at bay. There is nothing a man likes any better than a challenge.

  Her lips pressed against one another. Well, there would be challenge for she did not intend to be seduced quickly, for that might send the wrong message. The countess said that Landon needed to learn that love was something special to savor and she must hold her cards close to her chest before she allowed him to win.

  She lowered her knitting and stared out the window. Now she understood how hard it must have been to play cards and bluff. One look from her husband’s blue eyes turned her insides to jelly. Last night, turning that key and refusing him entry had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. If she kept at it, she would flirt with divorce. No man, especially a proud one like Lord Montague, would go forever without being given his rights to the marriage bed. If only she could have been brought to London for a season, maybe in the right context, he might have seen her.

  They could have fallen in love in the most conventional ways. Staring at each other across the ballroom floor, she could have given him a flirting glance behind her fan. The edges of her lips turned heavenward. He would have asked her to dance. She, of course, would have refused as she had taken the floor with another. His eyes would have followed her movements and she caught his smoldering glances from across the room. Then in the middle of a quaint country dance, he would appear in the line before her. She closed her eyes, picturing the dark curl that always fell across his forehead. The way he lifted the right side of his mouth as if everything she said was of the utmost importance.

  Their right hands raised the soft brush of gloved fingertips and then his hand would have guided her around beneath his arm as his left hand touched her gown at her waist. Even though she was alone, Juliet skin tingled with the knowledge of what his nearness did to her body. How it awakened places she did not understand and sent a deep want to the pit of her belly. A need she recognized that would ultimately lead to her fall. A deep, melancholy sigh slipped from her lips. If only.

  Something soft brushed her cheek. Startled from her contemplations, she brought her glance up to find a pair of deep blue eyes questioning her.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered, realizing that her dream had manifested itself into reality. The knitting slipped into the chair as she attempted to rise.

  “Careful, you shall lose a stitch.” He reached down and plucked the needles from the chair. “No need to rise, milady. Sit.”

  She watched him hold the heather blue beginnings to the light and stud
y them.

  “A sweater?”

  “No, milord.”

  His brow wrinkled. He held it next to his shoulder. “A scarf?”

  “Afraid not.”

  He grew thoughtful then a devilish twinkle emerged in his eye. “Kilt?” He asked lowering the needles toward his waist.

  Juliet’s eyes followed. A hard blush rushed to heat her cheeks as she realized what part of his anatomy would be covered by her loose stitches.

  “No,” he murmured in a voice so sultry her thighs clenched together. “No, I believe that might be a bit too drafty and too daring even for a Scot.”

  “’Tis no more than a shawl for the countess.” Juliet reached out to take her endeavors from his hands, grabbing the needles, and their fingers brushed together. A scorch of heat traveled along her arm as the yarn fell from his grasp and he took hold of her fingers. The slightest pressure moved her legs to stand and she fell hard underneath the warmth of his gaze.

  Her breath quickened as his thumb stroked the sensitive center of her palm. She could only stare and marvel as his eyes grew from sky blue to that of dusk, the dark velvet ribbon of midnight widened.

  “Such beautiful fingers.” His voice surrounded her with the warmth of a sultry, humid day and her heart skipped a beat as he lifted and brought them to his lips. She watched, fascinated as his mouth brushed so lightly across that only the air stirred. Yet, somehow it commanded her thighs to grow damp. Juliet could hear the rush of air leaving her lungs and she could not draw it back.

  A flick of his thumb pressured her fingers open. His eyes never left hers, as he brought his mouth against her palm and kissed the flesh he exposed. She gasped at the feel of the tip of his tongue swirling, teasing her palm. He must have known how it affected her for he lifted her arm higher and brought the throb of her veins at her wrist to his mouth. Opening it wider, he gently suckled the skin. Juliet closed her eyes at the decadence of the sensations that caused her skin to pucker. Her knees grew weak. She had no choice but the place the other palm against his shoulder to keep from swooning. His breath was as ragged as her own.

  How long they clung together, his mouth lavishing the emotion in her heart to a tempest, she did not know, but the clearing of a throat brought them both to sudden awareness they were not alone.

  “Good evening, Lord Montague, Lady Juliet. I trust you’ve found something to do in my absence?” The countess announced her presence.

  Juliet’s fingers dug into the soft grains of her husband’s jacket as his mouth lifted from her wrist. She opened her eyes and his grip lessened. Feeling the strength return to her limbs, Juliet turned away to face the windows, taking her arm with her, and her husband walked away.

  Chapter Nine

  Landon took a moment to let his blood cool. The erotic beat of her pulse had grown with each stroke of his tongue. She was no more immune to his advances as he was to her pretense of aloofness. He took a breath and adjusted his vest.

  “Good evening, Mother,” he replied, walking to her.

  “Good evening, Landon.” She lifted her cheek.

  He took her hands and greeted her with a kiss. “Sherry?”

  “Please.”

  He stepped to the side so she could pass and take her seat in the blue upholstered chair in front of the marble-top coffee table.

  “Lady Juliet, a glass of sherry?” the dowager inquired.

  Landon watched his wife shake her head. “No, I am fine.” But she did not turn away from the window.

  He uncorked the decanter and poured a small sip into the tiny glass. Walking back to the dowager’s chair, he held out the offering to her.

  “Thank you, my dear.” His mother brought it to her lips and took a delicate sip. “Excellent,” she purred and rested the glass upon the arm of the chair. “Lady Juliet, won’t you come and sit down?”

  Juliet turned. The afternoon sun illuminated her silhouette, nearly stealing Landon’s breath. A tinge of scarlet blossomed in her cheeks. “I….” Her eyes darted to Landon’s. Protocol demanded he remain standing until she took her seat. “Yes, of course. Forgive me.”

  The hand that was just to his lips pressed the silk aside so she could turn with ease and move to the armchair across from his mother.

  “Oh, your knitting is on the floor,” his mother tsked.

  “Allow me.” Landon hastily bent down and retrieved the needles with their intricate stitches. Rising, he held them out to her.

  “I must have dropped them when I rose to greet you.” Their eyes locked and a charge of sexual desire lashed from him to her. The thread of her heart gave a skip against the vein in her swanlike neck.

  “I hope you did not lose a stitch,” his mother said.

  “Fear not, Mama, my wife has many talents I am just learning of. Along with those she possesses the finest virtues and shall soon set it right.” His compliment brought another brush of pink to her rosy cheeks. With great reluctance, he released her from his stare and took his seat upon the sofa. “Is everything all right, my dear?” He lowered his frame to the cushion.

  Juliet’s fingers inspected the piece and she nodded. “Yes. Nearly a stitch lost. How clumsy of me.” She wrapped the loose thread around the needles, placing it back in the basket.

  “How did you spend your day?” the dowager asked.

  With the greatest reluctance, Landon drew his gaze away from his lovely wife. “Oh, I took care of some business.”

  “What type of business do you do?” Juliet asked.

  “Well, I have some investments, importation of cotton and tea. I dare say it was rather dull compare to the titillating conversation at Madame Beatrice’s.”

  His mother laughed. He glanced at her, bewildered.

  “I take it all went well?”

  “Oh, lovely, until dear Lady Scarborough hastened to join us.”

  Landon stiffened. The sound of her name caused him to cast a worried glance at Juliet, who sat tranquilly upon her chair. “She was not rude?”

  “No, not in the slightest,” Juliet quickly replied.

  Landon relaxed. He did not relish having to dress down the wife of a member of peerage. Yet, had she let loose her sharp harpy’s tongue upon his wife, he would have indeed taken her to task. “Good. She has her own husband to attend to and I wish her not to extend her rudeness to my wife.” He caught his mother’s look of surprise. Landon gave her a look that dared her to make any further mention of the lady in question.

  Luckily, Simmons stole the moment to reenter. “Dinner is served.”

  “Ah, let us see what Cook has managed to send us this evening.” He rose and extended a hand to help his mother. “I could have sworn I smelled a delightful cherry pie.”

  The dowager waited as he turned and offered a hand to Juliet.

  She blinked. “Oh, the pie.”

  “Yes?” He caught the look between the two women in his life. “Is there a problem with the pie?” He looked toward his mother and watched her bring her hands together to grasp the tip of her cane. Her gaze turned to Juliet.

  “So, you have heard?”

  Landon shifted his gaze back to his wife. She lowered her head.

  “Yes, milady.”

  Landon grew cross at being left out of the loop. “Well, I have not. Tell me, what has become of my pie?”

  “Gone,” the two women said in unison.

  His eyes widened. “Gone? Pilfered?”

  “Well,” Juliet stammered. “In a sense, Your Grace.”

  Seeing his surprise, she reached out and touched his arm. “Please, Lord Montague, don’t be offended. It appears your son has a similar taste.”

  “Alexander had a slice of my pie. That is not upsetting.” He waved a hand and brushed them off.

  The dowager turned toward the door as they began their journey to the dining room. “Oh not just a slice, my dear.” She chuckled. “The whole thing.”

  “Upon my word.” Landon gasped looking at his wife whose expression seemed to shift from sorrow
to mirth.

  “I’m afraid we shall not have the company of Alexander for dinner,” Juliet replied as he led her through the doorway. “He’s a bit under the weather.”

  “Poor boy.” Landon shook his head. “A night for chamomile tea and toast.”

  “Exactly,” the dowager agreed.

  Landon stepped behind her to help with the chair. Once his mother was seated, he did the same for Juliet. “I suppose it is a good thing this happens only once a year.”

  “Yes.” The dowager turned over her cup and Simmons stepped up to pour coffee.

  “So, tell me about this dress?” he asked his wife. “Will it be the same color as your eyes, or the delightful rose of your cheeks?”

  “It will be a surprise.” Juliet grew modest.

  “Not even a hint?”

  She shook her head.

  “You see how she treats me, Mother. I am forced to suffer.”

  The dowager shifted her eyes toward her son, her mouth twisted in disbelief of his complaints. “It will do your soul good to suffer.”

  Landon grinned and sat back as Simmons placed a large standing roast of beef in the center of the table.

  ***

  As dinner concluded, Juliet placed her napkin upon the table.

  “Leaving?” the countess asked.

  “I think so. I would like a breath of fresh air before going upstairs to read.”

  “I used to love the evenings,” Landon’s mother mused. “Taking a walk in the garden. Smelling the roses. The ones in the garden should just be opening. Why not stroll there?”

  “Thank you, milady, I think I shall.” Using her palms flat against the table, Juliet pushed her chair back.

  Simmons stepped forward and took hold of her chair as Lord Montague tossed his napkin down to help.

  “No, Lord Montague, please stay with the countess. I need some time to think.” She watched Landon’s footsteps still. His face took on a bland expression. Self-conscious of her actions, Juliet tugged on the sleeve of her dress and pulled the fabric down to the heel of her palm, thus covering his mark. Her husband’s eyes caught the action. Her face suddenly felt burned.