“What’s the matter there, little girl? Are you hungry?”
Hungry wasn’t the word for it. Charlotte all but grabbed for Juliet’s breast. As the baby suckled, the blood rushed to Juliet’s cheeks. All she could think of was her husband’s erotic kisses on this very same breast just last night. All she could think of was the searing joy she had found in his embrace. Oh, how she wished he was there, instead of off working for Snelling. It would have been nice to wake up in each other’s arms on their first real morning together.
As she sat there nursing the baby, her gaze fell upon the bedside table. There, the miniature of Charles lay beneath her kerchief, the ribbon on which she’d restrung it peeping out and just catching the morning sunlight. Thoughtfully, Juliet reached out and picked it up. She felt no urge to put it on. Instead, she simply let the tiny painting lay in her palm as she stared into the face of the man who now seemed to belong to another lifetime.
“Charles How much younger I was when I knew you,” she whispered to his painted likeness. She looked down at it, trying to find the right words. “I was an impressionable girl and you, a god on a mighty charger, resplendent in officer’s dress, all glitter and gold. I was so enamored of you—but I know now that we would never have been happy together. We were too much alike—both too serious, too practical, too … cautious, perhaps. You were right for me then, and I shall never, ever forget you—but it’s your brother who’s right for me now.”
She swallowed, hard.
“I hope you don’t mind what I have done,” she added, as she gazed down into those blue, blue eyes. “But I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to be unhappy.”
There was no answer, of course. And she had not expected one. The answer, as she well knew, was in her heart.
A half-hour later, Juliet was washed, dressed and eager to explore her new home. Plenty of work needed to be done around their little house, but it would wait till the afternoon. This morning, maybe she’d walk into Abingdon and see what the town was like. Or stroll around Swanthorpe, bringing Charlotte down to the river to see the swans, mallards and coots that paddled in the current. Better yet, maybe she would wander around until she found her husband, and surreptitiously watch him through increasingly appreciative eyes. The possibilities were endless.
With Charlotte in her arms, she headed downstairs, pausing at a window to look outside. It was a delightful spring day, with high, fluffy clouds drifting across a sky of hazy blue and a thousand daisies and dandelions scattered across the back lawn. As she came down the stairs and entered the sitting room, she was startled to see a rather thin young woman on her hands and knees before the hearth, shoveling old coals into a cast iron bucket. The girl looked up as Juliet entered the room, lunged to her feet, and bobbed a quick curtsy.
“M’loidy!”
Juliet was taken aback. Not only was she surprised to find a stranger in her home, she was not, and would never be, used to being addressed as “my lady.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she said, eyeing the girl in some confusion.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum. Moi name’s Becky. The master said Oi could come and be your maid, ’e did. Hope ye don’t mind. Oi’ve brought ye a breakfast straight from the manor ’ouse, Oi ’ave—cold gammon wi’ some bread and butter and a pitcher of fresh milk, since Oi knew ye wouldn’t ’ave anythin’ in.” The girl jerked her head, bird-like, toward the table. “It’s all roight there waitin’ for ye, it is.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Juliet said, her face flaming as she saw the table and thought of what she and Gareth had done on it not twenty-four hours past. Thank the lord Becky could not read her thoughts! She sat down and poured herself a mug of milk, her stomach rumbling at sight of the food. “Won’t you join me?”
Becky eyed the tray with undisguised longing, then quickly shook her head.
“Oh, no, mum, Oi couldn’t.”
“Go on,” Juliet said, clandestinely eying the girl’s bony hands and too-thin frame. “Besides,” she fibbed, “I can’t eat it all.”
With a nervous little shrug, Becky wiped her fingers on her skirts and selected a piece of ham. Juliet noted that she took the smallest one, as though she felt undeserving of any more than that. It took some urging to convince the girl to take a second slice, let alone a mug of milk, but by the time she did, Becky had relaxed, obviously thinking Juliet was someone she could trust.
“So tell me about Mr. Snelling,” Juliet murmured, washing down her breakfast with sips of milk. “You said he sent you down?”
“That ’e did, mum. And ’tis glad of it Oi be, too. Oi worked up in the manor house, ye see, but the master, ’e said Oi was lazy and slothful, and ’e wanted to send me away. But Oi heard ye was comin’ and knew ye’d ’ave yer ’ands full, what wi’ a babe an’ all, so Oi asked Snelling if Oi could stay on and work down ’ere for ’alf me pay. I didn’t want to leave Swanthorpe, ye see.” She blushed hotly and cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. “Oi’ve got me a feller ’ere.”
Juliet grinned. “I guess that makes two of us!”
“Oh, blimey, Oi’ve seen yer man! Everyone at Swanthorpe’s talking about ’im, they are, ’specially all the town girls who work ’ere. Ye’d best keep a close eye on ’im, lest one of ’em try to steal ’im away from ye!”
Juliet laughed. “Oh, Becky,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been a little homesick, and well, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. I don’t know anyone here, I’m afraid, and I feel like such an outsider, coming from partway across the world and all.”
“Ah, ye’ll soon foind that people is the same no matter where ye go,” Becky returned with quiet country wisdom. “And Oi knows what it’s loike to be alone and not knowin’ no-one. Tell ye what. Snelling always schedules a big foight for Froiday noights, down at the County ’all in the Market Place. That’s tonoight, it is. All the foine folks from Oxford’ll come down for it, and it’ll be as fun and loively as a country fair. We can get me sister Bonnie to look after yer babe; she’s got three of ’er own. ’Ow ’bout you and Oi go down together and watch?”
“Well, I.”
“It’ll be great fun. I hear Bull O’Rourke’s foighting, and ’e always draws a big crowd, ’e does. Ever ’ear of Bull? Strapping Oirish farmer, ’e is—’ands the soize of buckets an’ arms so big they split ’is shirt when ’e moves. ’Twill be a good match, I think—Bull’s never lost a foight yet. What do ye say, eh?”
“I’m not much for blood sports,” Juliet said, hesitating.
“Oh, ye can just close yer eyes if ye don’t want to watch. Any’ow, the crowd’ll be so thick and rowdy, we probably won’t be able to get near the ring, let alone see anythin’.”
“Well,” Juliet could think of twenty other things she’d rather be doing tonight, but Gareth had said he might not be home until late. What else was there to do, really? Besides, it would do her good to get out of the house. “All right, you’ve talked me into it,” she finally said. “What time should I be ready?”
He had not told her, of course.
Had not told her what he and the others who worked for Snelling would be doing for most of the morning in this barn floored with hay, its leather bags stuffed with sawdust swinging from ropes hung from the rafters. Had not told her because he’d known she’d be angry with him, and what with the way she’d been looking at him lately—her eyes soft and almost adoring—Gareth could not stand the thought of bringing on either her disapproval or ire.
Besides, she did not have to know. There was no need for her to know, really. It was simply a way to earn a living—more base than some, more noble than others—and wasn’t an income all that mattered at this point?
Of course it was. For the first time in his life, he was actually earning money instead of having it handed to him for no other reason than the fact that his brother was one of the five wealthiest men in England. For the first time in his life—excepting his rescue
of the stagecoach passengers and that of Juliet and Charlotte by way of a wedding ring—he actually felt good about himself. Proud of himself. He was not relying on someone else to support him. He was not searching for some new way to chase away the endless boredom of his life or making a spectacle of himself for the amusement of others or getting himself into trouble with the knowledge that Lucien would bail him out. With his own brain and hands, he was supporting his wife and his daughter—the two people he loved most in the world.
The two people he loved most in the world.
Ah, there was no question about that. He’d adored his little Charlie-girl from the moment he first met her and saw his brother’s blue eyes peering up at him from beneath those thick de Montforte lashes. And as for Juliet, beautiful, dark-haired Juliet with the creamy-smooth skin and loving hands and long, luscious legs
He grinned like a fool. He was the luckiest man in England, and, by God, he wasn’t going to jeopardize things by telling her what Snelling had really hired him to do!
With a cheerful farewell to the others, he left the barn bare-chested, his shirt slung over bulging shoulders that were still damp with sweat. His muscles tingled and sang after his vigorous exercise, and everything inside of him felt alive and eager and free. He knew he was walking with a bit of a swagger; he could not help it. He was on top of the world, and if he proved himself tonight, Snelling, the bastard, had promised to give him half of the proceeds the fight brought in.
’Sdeath, I just hope Lucien doesn’t get wind of this.
That would be almost as bad as if Juliet found out. Eventually she would, of course—and possibly quite soon—but he would deal with that when it happened.
Aren’t you afraid of the sort of reputation your fighting will bring down on your family, yourself, and Juliet?
No, no, and, of course, yes.
But he would deal with that later, too.
Through the trees, he could just see the pink brick of Swanthorpe Manor and, some distance beyond, the dower house itself. And there, off to his right, the cold waters of the Thames beckoned, swelling against its clay banks, glittering in the sunshine.
Gareth paused. The sun was warm on his bare shoulders; the river looked cool and smooth and inviting. And, ’sdeath, he couldn’t go home looking—and smelling—as though he’d just spent a day laboring in the fields, now, could he?
She might know. She might ask. And he really didn’t want to lie to her. He had misled her a little, yes—but he wouldn’t actually lie to her.
Whistling happily, Gareth turned and strode back across the meadow, heading away from the houses and toward the riverbank. Around him, wild dog rose was still in bloom. Buttercups, dandelions, and daisies sprang up in the grasses through which he strode, and sunshine turned the ivy that hugged the trees to a brilliant, shining green. He felt happy to be alive. Happy with his lot in life. As he neared the Mill Stream that branched out from the river, the ground beneath his feet grew dark and richly fertile, and not for the first time that day—that hour, even—he envied Snelling his fine estate with a passion that bordered on lust.
God, how he wished it were his own.
But such empty dreams would get him nowhere. If he thought about how much he loathed Snelling—and coveted what he had—it would only spoil his exceedingly good mood. Besides, he thought cockily, he had Juliet and Charlotte; they were more valuable to him than a hundred Swanthorpes.
He found the footpath and crossed the bridge that spanned the Mill Stream, pausing atop it for a moment to watch a swan and her downy cygnets in the waters below. Then he continued across the springy turf to the banks of the river itself.
As he’d expected, no one was around. Nothing but a robin in a nearby hawthorn and a few mallards eyeing him from half-way out in the river.
He tossed his shirt over a low-hanging branch, removed his boots and stepped out of his breeches. Flexing his muscles, he waded into the icy river, gasping at the bracing shock of it against his skin. His teeth chattered. His legs went numb. And then he dived beneath the surface, letting the water wash away all evidence of his morning toils.
Ah, yes. Life was indeed grand.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Becky hadn’t exaggerated about the far-reaching popularity of Snelling’s fights, Juliet thought, as they walked through the fields and into Abingdon early that evening. Foot, carriage, and horse traffic were all converging on the center of town from all directions. Drivers shouted at each other to make way. Dogs ran loose, barking, among hurrying pedestrians, through the legs of prancing horses, in and around carriage wheels. Vendors stood on the street corners selling ale, pastries, and other refreshments, and the very air held a festive ambience.
“What a crowd!” Juliet exclaimed, looking around her.
“Bull always draws ’em,” Becky said, her voice echoing in a medieval archway as she led Juliet through a row of ancient buildings bordering the Mill Stream. “’E ain’t never been beat, Bull ’asn’t, and you won’t foind a stronger bloke in Berkshire. Why, once Snelling ’itched ’im up to an ox and made each of ’em pull against the other—Bull’s so strong the animal couldn’t budge ’im!”
“Surely no human is that strong!”
“Most of us wonder if Bull even is ’uman!”
Juliet merely laughed and followed Becky out of the medieval buildings onto Thames Street, where the rushing waters of the mill all but drowned out the sounds of the festivities. Caught up in the excitement around her, she was feeling increasingly happy and free of the cares of her world. She had said her final goodbye to Charles, releasing him from her heart. And, aside from Gareth’s sister, how long had it been since she’d spent time with a female friend? She didn’t even want to think about the answer. Motherhood had been a full time occupation, and grief for Charles had robbed her of any desire to do anything fun. But she was feeling more like her old self these days, thanks to Gareth.
Dear, dear Gareth.
Her gaze softened as she thought of him. She hadn’t seen much of him that day, save for a brief few minutes when he’d dropped by the dower house late that afternoon. She and Becky had been on their hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when he’d come in with an ear-to-ear grin, his skin glowing and his hair damp, unruly, and deliciously tousled. With him around, getting any work done had been impossible. He’d been munching an apple, prowling the kitchen like a restless cat, and driving Juliet insane with his playful feints to her face, to the wall, to the leg of a chair.
“Would you stop?” she’d finally cried, looking up at him and laughing as she’d swatted him away.
“Can’t,” he’d said and, winking at Becky, leaned down and kissed Juliet fully on the lips. He’d tasted of sweet apples and sunshine, and she’d felt a rush of desire for him that had made her wish Becky was anywhere but in their kitchen.
“What’s got you in such a good mood?” she’d managed after he finally broke the kiss and straightened up, leaving her breathless and flushed, her hand to her suddenly pounding heart.
“Oh, nothing.” Another playful feint to her shoulder. “Nothing at all, dearest!”
“The way you’re acting, one might think you were going to the fight tonight.”
His eyebrows had risen, and then he’d laughed, loudly. “Well, maybe I am,” he’d said, cheerfully; then, saluting her with his apple, he’d swung back out the door.
Juliet had watched him as he crossed the lawn and headed toward the manor house, his stride cocky and giving him the appearance of owning the world. When she’d turned back to Becky, the other girl was simply sitting back on her heels and shaking her head in amusement. “Men! They just never grow up, do they?”
“Do you know, Becky I hope that one never does. He can make me laugh when all I want to do is cry. He can make me see the good in a situation when all I see is the bad. He knows when life should be taken seriously—and when it shouldn’t. He’s delightful and funny and clever—and not afraid to make a total cake of himself.
” She had smiled and given a little sigh. “No, I never want him to grow up not if it means seeing him change into something other than what he currently is.”
Becky had sat back on her haunches, a sly look on her face as she regarded Juliet.
“What?”
“Yer love for ’im is so obvious. ’Tis sweet to see, it is!”
“Becky!”
The girl, still grinning, had shrugged. “Ye can’t hide it, ye know. And Oi’ll wager yer man—charmin’, kind, an’ ’andsome as ’e is—is a real easy one to love.”
“Well yes, he is, but—it’s just that—” Juliet had turned as pink as Swanthorpe’s brick and looked away, suddenly flustered. “I guess it’s just rather difficult to admit my feelings, even to myself.”
But Becky had merely laughed knowingly. “’Well, then, maybe ye’d better admit ’em, ’cause it’s plain that yer man’s roight in love with you, ’e is!”
“Becky, you’re embarrassing me!” Juliet had said, and the girl had merely chuckled before they’d gone back to scrubbing the floor. Mercifully, Becky had said no more about the subject, but the conversation had weighed heavily on Juliet’s mind the rest of the afternoon, just as it weighed on her now as the two of them made their way down Thames Street, Becky tossing a few crumbs of bread to the ducks that paddled in the Mill Stream’s current.
Yer love for ’im is so obvious.
She considered their marriage. He was fun-loving and larkish. She was serious and pragmatic. He was reckless and impulsive and loved to put on a show. She was cautious and reserved and did not welcome undue attention. He was an aristocrat who’d never done a day’s work in his life. She was a provincial who balked at the very thought of idle hands. What on earth did they really have in common?
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