“With all due respect to the females of your acquaintance, Your Grace, I was born and raised in the wilderness of Maine. Those who were not practical, resourceful, and hardy did not survive.”
“Maine? How is it, then, that you ended up in Boston?”
“My father died when I was sixteen, mauled by a black bear defending her cub. He had a cousin in Boston, who’d always fancied my mother from afar. After Papa died, he came for Mama and me, married her, and took us both back to Boston. Mama died in ’74. You know about my stepfather.” She picked up her cloak, preparing to leave this house and never look back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I think I’ve answered enough of your questions and had best be gone. Good night to you.”
He never moved as she breezed past his desk, Charlotte in her arms. “Don’t you wish to know how Lord Gareth fares?” he asked mildly, in an abrupt change of subject.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you gave me no chance to ask.”
“I should think he’d like to thank you for saving his life.”
She paused halfway across the room, silently cursing him between her teeth. What tarnal game was he playing now? Without turning, she ground out, “He saved my life, not the other way around.”
“Not according to Lord Brookhampton.”
“I know no Lord Brookhampton.”
“Perry,” he amended, with infuriating smoothness. “He told me everything.”
“Look, I—”
At that moment, the door burst open without warning, sounding like a thunderclap in the vastness of the room.
“Go away, Andrew, Nerissa.”
“We’ve just spoken to Gareth. He told us who she is. Who the baby is. He said—”
“I said, go away.”
Juliet could only stare as the pair crossed the room. They were two more de Montforte siblings. They had to be. She saw Charles in the lines of their faces, in the arch of their brows and in the romantic shape of their long-lashed eyes. The mouths were the same. The planes of the cheeks were the same. The noses, the jaws, even the hair—wavy like Charles’s had been but, in the case of Lord Andrew, a dark auburn—were the same. Ignoring the duke, Andrew came right up to Juliet, took her hand, and bent over it in a sweeping, courtly bow.
“You must be Juliet,” he said warmly, looking up at her through thick brown lashes. He was young and handsome, with a look of sharp intelligence about him and eyes that, though smiling and lazy in the de Montforte way, didn’t miss a trick. “I am Andrew, Charles’s brother, and this is our sister, Nerissa. Welcome to England, and to Blackheath Castle.”
But Nerissa was staring at Charlotte, sleeping in Juliet’s arms. Her hands flew to her mouth, and sudden tears filled her pretty blue eyes. She took a hesitant step forward, biting her lip and raising her pleading gaze to Juliet’s. “May I?” she whispered, stretching out her arms.
With a resigned smile, Juliet passed the infant to her aunt. So much for leaving—and escaping the odious presence of the duke. But her peevishness melted away as Nerissa, her head bent over the little bundle, carried the baby into the shadows. The girl’s shoulders were shaking, and it was obvious she was weeping.
“That’s Lord Andrew and Lady Nerissa,” the duke corrected, irritably. “If you insist on introducing yourselves, at least do it properly.”
Andrew waved a hand in dismissal and moved toward the decanter. “Oh hang it, Luce, she’s from the colonies. She’s not bothered by all that.”
“I told you to leave us, Andrew. Do so immediately, before I get angry.”
“That’s Lord Andrew, if you don’t mind.”
The duke’s glass slammed down on the table, his face no longer wearing its veneer of tolerance. A frigid chill settled over the room. Juliet held her breath, all too aware of the enmity between these two brothers—one so dark and formidable, the other fiery, brazen, and openly insolent. For one terrible moment she thought the two of them were going to come to blows; but no. The duke had his temper on a tight rein. He would not stoop to fisticuffs, not in front of a stranger and certainly not with his own brother.
She was correct. He inclined his head, conceding this small victory to Andrew if only to avoid what would otherwise be a scene. “Sit down, then,” he said, darkly. “Both of you.”
Nerissa, still holding Charlotte, complied, but Andrew obviously felt that this order had to be challenged, as well. Taking all the time in the world, he poured himself a drink, then tossed himself into one of the chairs, one long leg thrown over his knee and bobbing lazily. He raised his glass to Juliet and took a long sip as he studied her. “Ah, yes. You look just like Charles said you did. I can understand why he was so captivated by you, Miss Paige.”
“Not just Charles,” Nerissa chimed in. “Gareth’s up there singing your praises as well, and he and his friends are all drinking bumpers to you. Gareth said you took control, calmed everyone down, and saved his life with your quick thinking. I think he’s completely charmed!”
“I’m afraid Lord Gareth gives me far more credit than I deserve,” Juliet said, head bent as she discreetly tried to cover her bloodied skirts with her arms. “He was the real hero of the hour, not me.”
“On the contrary,” said Andrew, waving his glass. “Gareth may be a rake, a wastrel and a scourer, but he doesn’t make things up.”
“Most assuredly not,” his sister added.
Juliet glanced at the duke. The dark gaze was still on her. Still watching her. Still studying her.
Worse, that faint little smile still played around his lips. It was unnerving.
“And how is Lord Gareth?” Juliet asked, directing her attention to this cheerful pair in an attempt to ignore that enigmatic stare.
“Oh, a bit faint from loss of blood and Irish whiskey, but otherwise quite well. But then, that’s Gareth for you.” Andrew downed the rest of his brandy with a practiced flick of his wrist. “The villagers call him ‘the Wild One,’ you know. Why, just last week he had the Den of Debauchery members make a pyramid of themselves down on the village green, took bets from all those who’d gathered to watch, and jumped Crusader over the lot of them. Won himself a fortune that day. The week before that—”
“That’s enough, Andrew,” the duke interrupted, straightening up.
“Come now, Luce, even you have to admit that his getting Mrs. Dorking’s pig foxed was hilariously funny.”
“It was not hilariously funny, it was uncommonly stupid. Especially in light of all the damage the animal went on to cause.”
Nerissa, examining each of Charlotte’s tiny fingers, had her head bent and was trying not to laugh.
Andrew was undeterred. “Still, what he did tonight tops ’em all. Whoever would’ve thought Gareth would go and make a hero of himself, eh, Luce?”
“Indeed, whoever would have thought Gareth would go and make anything of himself,” the duke murmured cryptically as he drained the rest of his glass. “And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I must go into Ravenscombe to see to the unfortunate passengers of the coach, as well as the highwayman your brother should have taken care of but didn’t. Pity. I expect there shall be a hanging. Are your traveling trunks still strapped to the coach, Miss Paige?
“Yes, but I think I should leave.”
“And I think you are distressed and need to rest before making such a hasty decision,” he countered, with infuriating benignity. “Surely, meeting Charles’s younger brother so unexpectedly, and under such traumatic circumstances, has not helped matters any.” He was smiling, but there was something she couldn’t identify beneath that smile, and his dark eyes were watching her closely. Too closely. “Lord Gareth bears a certain resemblance to Charles, don’t you think?”
“Your Grace, I don’t want to argue with you, but I would be more comfortable staying someplace in the village—”
“What?!” cried Andrew and Nerissa in chorus.
“Are your trunks still outside on the coach, Miss Paige?” the duke persisted.
“Well, of course, but—”
“Are they emblazoned with your name or initials?”
“Yes, but—”
“Puddyford!”
The door opened obediently, and a liveried servant appeared, his face expressionless, his body erect and at attention.
“Puddyford, I have business to attend to in the village. Have Miss Paige’s trunks brought inside and up to her rooms. Nerissa, you will see that our guest is made comfortable, and someone is sent to attend to her needs.” He let his gaze sweep assessingly over Juliet. “You will be happy in the Blue Room, I think.”
“Your Grace, I have no wish to impose upon your hospitality—”
“Nonsense, my dear girl. You have conducted yourself admirably, and your answers have satisfied me. Don’t look so put out. Don’t you realize I was only testing you with my studied rudeness?”
Testing me for what? she all but cried, not knowing whether to be outraged or humiliated. But he was already bowing, and without another word, was gone.
Andrew and Nerissa rushed to placate her as she remained staring at the door through which Lucien had passed. She could not know that he was a master manipulator. She could not know that he had plans for her. And she could not know that as the Duke of Blackheath strode out into the Grand Hall and called for his hat, his gloves, and his horse, his eyes were gleaming with cunning delight.
Chapter Six
Unpleasant dukes aside, there was something to be said for English hospitality.
Andrew, calling a servant aside and murmuring quiet instructions, made his exit. Beyond the open doors, footmen hurried past with Juliet’s trunks. A matronly servant breezed in, took Charlotte, and whisked her away to wash and change her. Several fresh-faced, bright-eyed maids streamed into the library, lining themselves up for Lady Nerissa’s inspection. The young noblewoman smiled and beckoned one of the girls forward. “This is Molly,” she said, introducing Juliet and the girl. To the maid she said, “Please draw a bath and lay a fire for Miss Paige. She is to be our guest.”
“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, hiccupping 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 sheets 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.”
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