by Alyson Chase
“Besides,” Juliana said softly. She turned and rested her hands on his hips. “We can’t wait a month for my father.” She huffed. “I don't know if I have the funds to pay for another month of your agency's time. This is a good plan, and I'm not scared, because you're going to be there, and you'll protect me.”
Her eyes were as rich as chocolate. Soft, intelligent, and full of an emotion Brogan didn't want to identify.
“Please.” She ran her hand up his abdomen and rested it over his heart. “Please Brogan, let me be a part of this. I need to be a part of this.”
He closed his eyes. His muscles loosened as resignation took hold. He was a fool. But when she looked at him like that, he couldn't refuse her.
And she was right.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. Anything else was unacceptable.
“Fine.” He opened his eyes and pinned her with his glare. “But you’re going to do everything I say.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Juliana hummed along with the music, twisting and turning her way down the dance floor. She did so love to dance. She had yet to entice Brogan onto the floor as her partner, but there were plenty of other men who did her the service. The glower on Brogan’s face every time one of them placed his hand on hers was enough to warm her heart.
He was a conflicted man, but she finally felt that she was making progress. Her presence here, to take part in his plan, was proof of that. Most men would have dismissed her arguments, patronized then ignored her. He thought her spoiled, and to a degree, perhaps she was. But she knew how fortunate she was to be involved with a man like Brogan. To have his respect. She would show him they were compatible in all regards. She didn’t want their affair to end.
She wanted more.
She dipped into a curtsy, her chest heaving with exertion, and thanked her partner. He led her back to the corner where Brogan stood, scowling. “Your cousin is a fine dancer,” Mr. Chancey said.
Brogan nudged her behind him, blocking most of her with his body. “And now the dance is over.” He crossed his arms and stared the man down.
Mr. Chancey shifted on his feet. “Yes. Quite. Well… I’ll just be going now, shall I?” He nodded to Juliana and slunk off.
She slapped Brogan’s arm. “Why are you being so difficult? He was a nice man, and a good dancer.”
“I can dance.” Brogan sniffed. “I choose not to.”
She rolled her eyes. That hardly sounded likely. But men did so need to protect their egos.
“Is your brother here?” he asked.
“Uh…” She rolled onto her toes and scanned the room. “I don’t see him. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Juliana cocked her head. “Did you need to speak to him?” Perhaps it would be good to talk to Snow again. He’d had some time to digest the news of Pickens murder. He might think differently now.
“No.” Brogan held himself stiffly, not looking at her.
Her stomach turned. “You don’t suspect him, do you?” She laughed, but it sounded distorted, as though she was standing in water. “That would be absurd.”
He said nothing.
“Brogan.” She turned to stand in front of him. “You don’t suspect him?”
He scraped his palm over his jaw. “I think your brother is too eager to be admired by his crowd. That makes him easy to manipulate. His friends could be trying to install him as earl without his knowledge and hope to profit from the connection.”
Juliana blinked. He was serious. “Is this because they spoke of revolutions and equality? Some revolutions are needed in order to progress. Not all of them devolve into bloodshed.”
“Most of them do.”
She pressed her lips together. Was he so determined to maintain the boundaries between classes that he would condemn those who would fight against them? “To be honest, I’m a bit envious of Miss Lynn. She is passionate about changing the world. She’s someone who will actually work towards that end. I only discuss it as philosophical theory.” She traced a seam in the wood plank floor with the toe of her slipper. “I do hope becoming a member of Rose’s debate society will change that for me.”
“You don’t have to change the world to live a life of value.” He placed his finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “You’re worth a hundred Miss Lynns.”
Her shoulders sank. The words were sweet, but what she read behind them left her cold. Of course, he’d think she didn’t have to actually do anything. He’d put her on a pedestal, someone he could enjoy but not hold.
But she’d show him her actual worth. “We came here to cause a stir.” She held out her hand as the first notes of a waltz filled the room. “There seems no better place for a public disagreement than the dance floor.”
Brogan squared his shoulders, looking like he was facing a firing squad rather than a dance. “Very well.” He gripped her hand, striding to the dance floor, making Juliana hurry to keep up. He took her in his arms, holding himself stiffly, keeping the proper amount of space between their bodies.
Juliana could almost see him counting the steps in his mind as they moved across the floor. But though he held himself rigidly, his steps didn't falter. He moved with the sort of grace that came with being an athlete.
“You dance well,” she said.
“I dance. The quality of it is irrelevant.”
She sighed. “Is it so hard to you to come to a ball, or a musicale, like the other night?” The couple next to them swung in a dizzying circle, the woman’s skirts brushing Juliana’s legs, her laugh lighting up the room. Juliana stared at them wistfully. “Is my life so distasteful to you?”
He started. “Nothing about you is distasteful.”
Well, that was something. Something to build upon, perhaps. “Do you think you could ever see yourself living a life like this?” She held her breath. His next words were important. His answer could determine her future.
Sometime during their affair, she’d realized she didn’t want it to come to an end. Aside from their attraction, which only seemed to grow, she’d discovered how much she liked him. She’d realized she wanted to keep him.
Their lives could merge together, she knew they could. It only remained to convince Brogan.
His nostrils flared. “That's a foolish question. This isn't my life, unless it is as part of an investigation. It can't be my life.”
“You use the word ‘can’t’ very easily.” Her chest heaved. “You're here now. No one has given you a second look.” Well, that wasn't quite true. A man as intimidating looking as Brogan garnered plenty of looks, but nothing to call the magistrate over. “My life isn't all parties and salons, you know. It's quiet evenings by the fire, reading a book curled up next to someone I care about.”
She swallowed, the back of her throat burning. “I could be quite content living a quiet sort of life, with only the occasional appearance in society. Don’t you think, that is, could you not meet me half way?” Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. She was used to speaking boldly, but that might have been the most courageous words she’d ever said.
She’d laid it bare, her desires to be with him. There was no artifice, no double-speak to hide behind if he didn’t want her.
Her stomach twisted, and she thought she might cast up her accounts. What if he didn’t want her?
His Adam's apple bobbed. “Juliana,” he said, his voice low, “you do not know what you ask. You think life is something from a novel, or like one of your salons where an eclectic group can mix and meet. But that's not real.” His feet slowed, until they were hardly moving to the music. “Real life is judgmental. It's hard for a man like me, and for any woman I would take as a wife, it would be doubly so.”
“Shouldn’t that be a choice made by the woman?” she asked, her voice tart.
His eyes darkened to a stormy sea. “You might think you would be happy, but you wouldn’t be. You'd grow tired and bitter.” He jerked his gaze away. “Th
at is something I couldn’t bear to see.”
She stared at the glint from his gold cravat pin. His agency spared no expense when it came to its agents’ disguises. Her skin flushed hot, whether from anger, humiliation, or despair, she didn’t know. “I would make a man, any man, a good wife. I'm not as demanding as you seem to think. My happiness isn’t bought with houses and jewels.”
He inhaled sharply. “That is because you think the only difference in your circumstances would be between wearing a ruby or a garnet, between wearing silk or cotton. You don't know how the other half live in London. How they struggle not to walk upon the streets with holes in their shoes, the effort needed to get food on the table.”
“That’s absurd.” She frowned at the couple who nearly bumped into them, and forced her feet back into motion. “I've seen your apartments. You might not be wealthy, but you are hardly the pauper you are describing. That caricature isn’t how you live.”
“Not now. But my parents didn’t always live in the apartments I took you to. My sister did not always have gowns enough to throw out of windows.” Brogan’s boot kicked her slipper, and he frowned. “And I'm always just one job loss away from finding myself right back in that place.”
She shook her head. “You delight in being a pessimist.”
“You delight in ignoring the problems we would face.” His hand at her waist tightened. “I will not have you lower yourself to be with me. I don't want a wife I'd have to struggle to keep happy.”
She pushed on his shoulder, putting even more space between them. “You don’t get to tell me what makes me happy and what does not,” she hissed.
Another couple swirling next to them glanced over, and Juliana forced a grin between gritted teeth. Their pretend fight was turning all too real.
“In this matter, I do,” he said, much too calmly for her taste. If she was getting riled up, he damn well should be as well. “I, also, get to decide what best suits my happiness, and having a wife who was raised getting whatever she wanted would suit me ill.”
“We're back to my being spoiled, is that it?” Pins and needles stabbed her chest. “I might be the daughter of an earl, but I wasn't raised in this great wealth that you seem to think I was. I had a budget. There were trips I couldn't take, things I couldn't buy.”
Brogan snorted, and her face grew hotter. “My father is not wealthy,” she insisted.
“Your father is a nobleman. He has land, a large home. He has the kind of money most people in England could only dream of seeing.”
Another pair of dancers looked at them with interest.
They were curious, and her life was falling apart. She’d never felt such anger before. So mad she wanted to spit or yell or stomp on Brogan’s foot.
She did none of those things. “That's it then? You have it all figured out. I will marry some soft nobleman who will keep me content with chocolates and books and bore me out of my senses. You think that will protect my happiness. And you will marry...”
She didn't want to think about the kind of woman Brogan would end up marrying. It wouldn't be some creepmouse. Brogan needed someone strong to stand up to him, and he was smart enough to know it. His wife would be tough, used to a bit of hardship.
She'd be someone Juliana would probably like, if she didn't feel obliged to hate her on sight.
“You know what I think?” she said. “You’re a snob, Brogan Duffy. A reverse snob. You pretend that my place is higher than yours, that you would never deign to dirty me with your lifestyle. But you actually think the working class are better than my kind. Nobler somehow, through their suffering. Smarter. Tougher.”
Her lungs shuddered. She wasn’t what Brogan wanted. All her education, her modern ideas about society, and where had they got her? The man she loved didn’t want her.
His wife would be useful, she could see that now. Someone who wouldn’t waste her time talking about the world’s problems, but just dig her hands in and get to work.
She raised her chin. He might be right. She might be of no use to a man like him. But she had her pride. “You've made a pretense of saying that you're not good enough for me, when in actuality, you don't think I'm good enough for you.”
“Right.” He stopped dancing and glared down at her. Turning on his heel, he stalked off the dance floor.
And since he was holding her hand, she was dragged along behind him, sputtering and calling him every creative oath she could think of.
Oh yes, they were garnering plenty of attention. Her plan was a stunning success. Everyone in her peer group and beyond would hear of this fight.
“Where are we going?” she snarled, tugging at her hand in vain.
“Going?” He pulled her out of the house, ignoring the gaping footmen. He sighted their carriage and headed towards it. “It's time Lady Juliana learned just how the other half lives.”
He threw open the carriage door, gripped her waist, and practically threw her inside. “It's time you realize just how different we truly are.”
***
Brogan fisted the bit of wood in his pocket. Its smooth curves did nothing to ease his anger. He should have whittled a star, something spiky. He needed to feel the bite of pain. Or the satisfaction of split knuckles, bruised bones, something, anything to remind himself that the drivel Juliana had spewed couldn't be true.
She was wrong. They couldn't be together.
He rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. “Stop here,” he shouted to the driver. Plucking Juliana up from the seat across from him, he plopped her on his thigh and faced her toward the window.
She gripped his arm for balance. “Much as this tour of London has been interesting,” she began.
“Quiet.” His hand curved around her hip against his better judgment. She was warm and soft and everything he couldn’t have. “This isn't a tour. It's a lesson.” He pointed. “See that man there? The one lying in the gutter.”
Juliana sucked in a breath. “What's wrong with him? Should we send for a doctor?”
“We could,” Brogan agreed. “If you could find a doctor who would come out here. Besides, there are ten more just like him all down this block.”
She leaned forwards, her cunny pressed against his leg as she peered out the window.
He could feel her heat through their clothes, though that didn’t surprise him. Juliana exuded warmth. She made everyone feel welcome, as though they could belong with her. The muscles of his thigh jumped under his skin.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Shoreditch. And there.” He pointed again. “That woman with her skirt ruched up around her hips and weaving down the street.”
Juliana drew back, her cheeks flushing. “I don't—”
He gripped the back of her neck and pushed her forward. “I know you don't want to see this. See how people who aren't earls and viscounts and famous poets live.” He swallowed. “Don't want to see where I come from. But you need to.”
She needed to understand how far apart they truly were. How foolish her notions were.
She swiveled her head to stare at him. “This isn't you. Brogan. This isn't your life.”
“I'm closer to these people than I am to you.” Something twinged hollowly in his chest. Damn her. Damn her for making him want something he couldn't have. For making him be the responsible one who had to end it.
A wail rose from the street, and Juliana popped her head out the window. “It's a girl. A child.” She frowned. “That man is shaking her.”
Brogan looked, checking to see if the child was in danger. His shoulders relaxed. “Yes. Her father. Probably angry she didn’t earn enough coin begging today.” He waited until he saw the father relent, wrap his arm around the girl’s shoulders and rest his forehead against hers.
It was a common enough scene in his old neighborhood. If the child were fortunate, the parents would only scold. The unlucky ones received beatings for not contributing enough to the family finances.
>
“She's dirty. She's hungry.” He shook his head. “No matter how much you speak of equality, her life will never change.”
“You don't know that. You can't know that.”
“There is much I don't know,” he agreed. “What I do know is that a man like me can never marry into nobility.”
He paused. Hadn't his employers married unconventionally? Married much beneath them, according to society’s standards? Was it really so unreasonable to dream?
Hope drained out of him until he felt nothing but numb. It was different when a man married a woman of lower standing. The consequences were fewer. A wealthy and consequential man could protect his wife from the barbs society would throw her way.
Brogan had nothing but his fist to protect Juliana, a weapon unsuited to guard against the humiliations and snubs from her peers.
Damn her to hell and back for wanting to throw her life away on a man like him.
She pushed the carriage door open.
Brogan grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”
She pulled the pearl bobs from her ears. “I'm going to give the girl my jewelry. And the ribbon trim on this gown should fetch enough money for a couple of meals.” She tugged at the edge of lace on her bodice as she moved toward the door.
Brogan pulled her back inside and closed them in. He pounded on the carriage ceiling. “Roll on,” he called.
“What are you doing?” She wriggled on his lap. “I can help her.”
“You can get yourself killed. Even I don't want to step outside in this neighborhood after dark.” He snorted. “No, this lesson will be conducted safely from within the confines of this carriage.”
With one last wiggle, she slid from his lap and plopped down across from him. She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “This feels less like a lesson and more like a lecture. You're showing me problems, but not allowing me to help. My father might not be the richest earl in England, but as you’re overly fond of pointing out, I’m not going hungry. I can help. Stop the carriage.”
