Something lurched painfully in her heart. I never had this much fun with Charles. He could never have found anything funny about spending the night in a brothel, would not have been able to find anything to salvage in this situation. He, far too serious by half, would have remained quietly furious with me.
But not Gareth.
“See, Juliet? Your daughter thinks it’s funny. Now, Charlotte, if we can only get your mama to laugh, too. I mean really laugh. She’s so pretty when she smiles, don’t you think?”
Juliet blushed. “Oh, do stop trying to flatter me, Gareth.”
“Flatter you? I’m merely telling the truth.”
“And stop grinning at me like that.”
“Why?”
“Because—” she hugged herself and looked away—“it’s making me all the more annoyed with you.”
“You’re not annoyed with me, Juliet.” He climbed onto the bed, tugged off his boots, and, still in his stockings, lay back against the pillows, his long legs bent at the knee. Throwing one knee over the other, he placed Charlotte on his chest and grinned lazily up at Juliet. “At least, not anymore.”
Her heart did a funny little flip, and desire swam through her blood. She could feel a hot, familiar dampness between her thighs. A sharp, tingling ache in her breasts. Dear God, he was shamelessly tempting. And the picture he made, lying back against the pillows like that, with his arms behind his head and that seductive gleam in his blue eyes as though inviting her to join him—
God help her.
“I’ll make you happy, Juliet,” he announced, still lounging on the bed with one leg propped over his bent knee, his stockinged foot bouncing playfully up and down. His eyes were warm and laughing. “Providing you can be patient and understanding with me whilst I fumble my way from wild young bachelor to tame and loving husband.” He grinned. “I’m impossibly hopeless, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Lucien says I need to grow up.”
“You sound proud of the fact.”
“Proud? No. Lucien, you see, never got the chance to be a child, and sometimes I think he almost envies me my total lack of inhibition. Poor devil. He was only a lad when he inherited the dukedom, you know. It wasn’t easy for him.”
“No—it never is, losing a parent.” She knew well how that loss felt.
“Ah, but we did not lose just one parent, you see. My mother had a terrible time giving birth to Nerissa. My father couldn’t bear to hear her screams of pain, so he tried secluding himself in one of the towers during her ordeal. Still, it was no use. He finally went rushing to her aid—only to fall headlong down the stairs.” His foot stopped swinging for a moment, and his gaze was distant and sad. “It was Lucien who found him.”
“Oh, Gareth.” Her eyes darkened with sympathy. “Charles never told me.”
“No, he wouldn’t have. Charles was very private about family, you know. But Luce, poor chap, he never got over it—nor over Mama’s death from childbed fever several days later. Some men would drink themselves to death. Not Lucien. He buries his grief and horror at what he saw beneath a heightened sense of responsibility, not only for the dukedom but also for us. He takes that responsibility seriously. Too seriously, I’m afraid. Living under his roof has been about as happy as living at Newgate, I should think.” He gave a rueful smile. “Why do you think Charles went into the army when he did? What do you think caused the rift between Luce and the rest of us? He never learned how to have fun. Never had the chance to pull a prank, play a joke, run wild, live it up as all young blades should have the chance to do. Everything is all seriousness to Lucien, but I could never live like that. Life is just too short.”
She moved closer, perching herself on the very edge of the bed. “And so you amuse yourself by getting people’s pigs drunk, instead.”
“You heard about that, then?”
“I did. At the breakfast table one morning.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Well, I only do those sort of things when I’m foxed. I won’t even begin to tell you what I’ve done whilst sober.”
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“I confess, I don’t think I want you to know!”
She laughed, and so did he, and for a brief, buoyant moment the troubles of their world went away, and there was only the three of them, alone in this room, safe from worry and want. But then Gareth’s expression sobered. There was a message in what he’d just told her, and suddenly he was no longer teasing.
“Don’t end up like Lucien,” he said softly, reaching up to touch her cheek, that stubborn wisp of hair. “Don’t throw away your youth, your spirit, and your love on something that is lost, Juliet. Something that can never be.”
She looked down, the poignant—and unexpected—wisdom of his words filling her with pain. He was talking about Charles, of course. He, who’d said nothing about that terrible moment in the church this morning; he, who’d forgiven her for the cruel comparisons she had made between him and his brother; he, who’d never commented on the miniature she wore prominently displayed around her neck. He had noticed them all, these little shrines to another man, but he had never said a word, had never expressed resentment or anger or jealousy that he was not, and might not ever be, the prince of her heart. A lump rose in Juliet’s throat. Not only was her husband noble and generous, he was far more perceptive—and wise—than she had given him credit for.
Picking at a thread in the counterpane, she said, “I cannot help it, Gareth. I still feel loyal to him, even though he’s dead, even though I’m now married to you. I know it’s silly, but well, I guess I just have too many memories.”
“Memories are all well and good, but they will not warm your bed at night.”
“He died in the prime of his life—”
“His life was completed, Juliet. And knowing my brother as I did, he would not have wanted you to pine so over him but to make the most of yours.”
She stared morosely at the floor. He was right, of course, but that didn’t make things any easier. Cuddling Charlotte, Juliet lay her cheek against the baby’s soft curls and blinked back the sudden tears his words had brought on. She could feel her husband’s gaze upon her—kind, gentle, understanding, patient.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, miserably.
He smiled, his eyes warm and forgiving. “Not anymore.” And then: “Are you angry with me?”
“No.” She shook her head and wiped away a tear that had rolled free of her right eye. Sniffled. Wiped away another. “I’m … I’m so sorry about this morning in church, with the rings—”
“It is forgotten.”
“No, I feel horrible about it. There you were with all your friends looking on, and I embarrassed you, hurt you—”
He shook his head patiently and gave a little smile. “Come here, Juliet.”
“Oh, no, I can’t, I—I’m not ready for—that is, I—”
“Shhh. I know you’re not ready. I just want you to sit up here with me. That’s all. You’ve been through enough all by yourself without going through this alone, as well.”
He sat up in bed, making a space for her beside him.
She hesitated for a moment before joining him. She could feel the warmth of his big body beside her, its quiet, resting power. Immediately, her heart began pounding, skipping beats, sending blood racing to her cheeks and tingling out into her fingers and toes. She was helpless against his seductive attraction. Helpless against her feelings for him, which she could no longer pretend to ignore. Those heavy-lidded blue eyes, those long, sweeping lashes, that insouciant, irresistible smile—
She might have kissed him. For a moment their gazes met—his, warm and charming; hers, confused and scared—but then he grinned, draped an arm around her shoulders to pull her close, and the moment was lost. She lay stiffly against the hollow of his shoulder, heart pounding, reluctant to put the weight of her head against him and hardly daring to breathe—but very aware of the hard body beneath his so
ft shirt, the faint hint of his own unique, masculine scent.
True to his word, he did nothing but hold her as he prompted her to talk about her fears, her dreams, and, yes, even Charles. And sometime during that long hour that he held her, Lord Gareth de Montforte ceased being the man she’d married and became her best friend.
Chapter Eighteen
Supper arrived. As Gareth set up their meal on an elegant French table, Juliet retreated behind a corner screen and fed Charlotte. When she emerged, putting the sleepy baby in the cradle, the aroma of hot food assailed her senses. Her stomach rumbled with need. How many hours had it been since they’d eaten a decent meal?
Gareth was standing attentively by her chair, waiting to seat her. Smiling, Juliet sat down, her gaze following her handsome husband as he walked back around the table and took his own chair across from her. Ever the perfect gentleman, he lifted the lids from the covered dishes and tureens, allowing Juliet to inspect each one before serving up her portions himself.
It was a veritable feast. Beneath the glow of the small candelabra there was hare simmered in port wine and stuffed with herbs and cinnamon. Veal pie with plums and sugar. A fluffy white cake filled with butter, sugar, and raspberry jam, an assortment of truffles and sugared pastries, and spicy, moist gingerbread, still hot from the oven. Bottles of sweet, fruity wine, biscuits, and a selection of cheeses—Stilton, Cheshire, and cheddar—completed the meal. As they ate, washing the food down with the wine served in sparkling crystal glasses, they continued the conversation they’d started on the bed. The more they talked, the more they relaxed. And the more Gareth drank, the more amusing he became.
Two glasses of wine and he was making her giggle with his word caricatures of Lord North and the other ministers whose doings had helped plunge America into revolution; three and he was telling her about the wicked scandals, affairs, and personal quirks of politicians whose names she had never heard, and aristocrats she hoped never to meet, until their own troubles seemed far away and she was laughing right along with him.
“No, I’m not joking!” he protested, laughing and waving a bit of cheese as he related a tale about Perry’s mother. “The busks in her corsets really did snap after she gorged herself at her daughter’s wedding feast, and everyone at the table heard them go!”
“Oh, Gareth—you cannot be serious!”
“Oh, but I am. You see, I charmed her maid into bringing me the corset beforehand.”
Juliet clapped a hand to her mouth to hold back her sudden laughter. “You mean you sabotaged it?!”
“But of course. It was great fun, I can assure you. You should’ve heard the things go. Crack! Good thing she was swathed in so much fabric, or they might’ve shot right out of her garments like arrows and hit someone in the eye.”
“Oh, Gareth, that is quite impossible!” she gasped, holding her side with the force of her mirth.
“Ha! But I got you laughing!” He took a swallow of wine. “Another time, Perry’s mother had a ball, and the Den members and I sneaked in beforehand, scooped out the inside of the cake, and stuck a dead salmon inside. Perry had caught it two days before, and it was the height of summer, so you can imagine how the thing stank. You should’ve seen everyone’s faces when they started slicing the cake and the fumes burst forth; it was so bad that Hugh’s mother passed out and fell face first right into the icing!”
Juliet was laughing so hard, the tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I think I understand why Perry’s mother won’t let you stay at her house!”
“Perry’s mother? Ha! None of my friends’ mothers will so much as allow me beyond their gates, never mind over their thresholds! Bunch of sour old gits; you’d think they could forgive me for things that happened four, five years ago.” He grinned, all deceptive innocence. “Why, I’d never do such things now!”
She laughed. “Unless you’re foxed.”
“Unless I’m foxed.”
“Perhaps you should stop drinking, then.”
“And perhaps you should start eating, my dear wife. I’ve seen sparrows with bigger appetites. Here, try some of this Cheshire. It is splendid.”
He plucked a small bit of cheese from the dish and, leaning across the table, held the morsel to her lips. Juliet hesitated—the gesture seemed uncomfortably intimate—but the wine had relaxed her, taking the edge off her inevitable wedding-night jitters, and she suddenly felt ridiculous for being so skittish. Especially when she looked into those romantic blue eyes across from her and saw shadows of Charles in that familiar de Montforte face, in that lazy de Montforte smile. Currents fluttered out along her nerve endings. Warmth settled in the pit of her belly. Slowly, she opened her mouth and accepted the cheese, trembling at the warm brush of his fingers against her lips.
She chewed and swallowed, her gaze still trapped by his, until she finally blushed and looked away, her face rosy and hot, her hands gripped tightly beneath the tablecloth. When she finally dared to look back up at him, he was gazing at her with an amused little half-smile.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked, topping up her wine glass.
“Delicious.” Every nerve in her body was thrumming in response to the intimate gesture they’d just shared, her lips tingling where his fingers had brushed them. “But I think I prefer the Cheddar.”
“Oh. I haven’t tried that one yet.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.” His eyes were teasing, challenging, inviting her to summon her courage and—
Good God, he wants me to feed him!
Heat prickled through her. He was still watching her, little sparkles of laughter dancing in his eyes, his mouth twitching at the corners.
“You want me to force you to try some, then,” she declared, her bold tone belying her shaky courage.
“My dear Juliet, I shall never force you to do anything that you do not wish to do.”
She looked across the table at him. He gazed back, calm, relaxed, amused. Dear God, but he looked handsome in the candlelight. Handsome under any light. And now his grin was spreading, as though he was ready to burst out laughing at her predicament. What a rogue he was! And what a skittish ninny she was. She, who’d once faced Indians and bears in the wilds of Maine; she, who’d been caught up in revolution in Boston; she, who’d stood up to murderous highwaymen—she, who was letting this teasing English aristocrat, who was, after all, her husband, turn her courage upside down! Determined to prove to herself as well as to him that she was no coward, she reached down and selected a wedge of pale yellow Cheddar. Carefully leaning across the table so the candle would not singe her sleeve, she met that challenging stare with an equally challenging one of her own and placed the morsel of cheese against her husband’s lips.
His sensuous, lazily smiling lips.
His gaze locked on hers, but he did not open his mouth. He merely gave her a warm, assessing look that melted every bone in her body.
And then his lips parted, and his tongue came out to lazily circle the edge of the cheese.
Raw desire shot through Juliet’s blood, centered between her legs. Her hand shook. Her heart pounded. His lips, soft and warm, feathered against her fingers as he slowly took the cheese, his gaze still holding hers. He finally began to chew, and Juliet—trembling—started to pull away, but his hand came up and closed warmly around her own, trapping her fingers within his strong, hard grasp. He brought her hand to his lips, and, watching her from above her knuckles, slowly licked each fingertip clean.
Juliet gasped and yanked her hand back. “I—think I’ve had enough food for tonight,” she said shakily, pushing her chair back.
Laughing, he leaned an elbow against the table, propped his dimpled chin in his palm, and calmly swallowed the cheese. “Coward.”
“I am not! It’s just that well, this is—”
“Wicked?”
“Well, yes!”
“Unseemly?”
“It’s—”
“Juliet.”
She froze. Her
insides were hot and shaking, her throat as dry as cinders. Her bones were suddenly so weak she didn’t know if she could stand up, anyhow. She clenched her hands to still her wildly pounding heart and forced herself to meet his amused gaze. “Y-yes?”
“You, my dear, do not know how to have fun.”
“I do, too!”
“You do not. You are as bad as Lucien. And do you know something? I think it’s time someone showed you how to have fun. Namely, me. You can worry all you like about our situation tomorrow, but tonight … tonight I’m going to make you laugh so hard that you’ll forget all about how afraid of me you are.”
“I am not afraid of you!”
“You are.”
And with that, he pushed his chair back, stalked around the table, and in a single easy movement, swept her right out of her chair and into his arms.
“Gareth! Put me down!”
He only laughed, easily carrying her toward the bed.
“Gareth, I am a grown woman!”
“You are a grown woman who behaves in a manner far too old for her years,” he countered, still striding toward the bed. “As the wife of a Den member, that just will not do.”
“Gareth, I don’t want—I mean, I’m not ready for that!”
“That? Who said anything about that?” He tossed her lightly onto the bed. “Oh, no, my dear Juliet. I’m not going to do that—”
She tried to scoot away. “Then what are you going to do?”
“Why, I’m going to wipe that sadness out of your eyes if only for tonight. I’m going to make you forget your troubles, forget your fears, forget everything but me. And you know how I’m going to do that, O dearest wife?” He grabbed a fistful of her petticoats as she tried to escape. “I’m going to tickle you until you giggle until you laugh until you’re hooting so loudly that all of London hears you!”
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