by Shana Galen
Pelham was looking down, and the first thing he noticed was her feet were small, bare, and slightly pink against the reds and blues of the plush carpet. His eyes traveled upwards, noting the simple white shift she wore, until he reached the tangle of her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a cascade of moonlight over her porcelain skin. He tried not to stare at that bare flesh too long, tried not to notice how her sleeve was slipping farther, but his eyes lingered.
And when he finally looked at her face, he found he fared little better. Her heavy-lidded eyes, rosy cheeks, and plump mouth gave her a childlike appearance. She looked so young and innocent, without the icy expression she usually wore.
Pelham had the strangest thought. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. He wanted to hold her, tell her everything would be well. He would never allow any harm to come to her.
She had obviously driven him to the depths of madness. She was no kitten to be cuddled and petted. This cat had claws.
As if to prove his point, she said, “What is the cause of that infernal pounding?”
He glowered at her. In response, she yawned.
“Madam, it is”—he glanced at the pocket watch he still held ready in his hand—“eleven minutes past eight o’clock. You are late.”
“Late?” She ran a hand through her hair. The nightshift she wore was voluminous, but the action outlined the curve of her breast. “Is the magistrate here?”
Pelham glared at the maid. “Did you not inform her of my schedule?”
She nodded furiously. “I did, Your Grace. I swear it.”
He turned back to the courtesan and gave her an expectant look. She merely slid her errant sleeve back onto her shoulder and moved away from the door. “She’s a good girl. Your Jane did tell me, but I’m afraid I am too fatigued to eat breakfast this morning.”
From the doorway, Pelham watched in stupefaction as she padded back to the bed. She parted the curtains. “Wake me when the magistrate arrives.”
The curtains closed, and all was silent.
Pelham stood rooted in place for three ticks of the clock. He shook his head, half expecting to wake at any moment. But this was no nightmare.
Fortunately, he knew how to deal with defiance.
He marched into the bedchamber, threw the bed curtains open, and stared down at the courtesan. She was lying on her back, her blonde hair fanned out on her pillow. She gazed up at him. “I don’t recall inviting you to my bed.”
“This is my bed,” he said, punching the drapes with his finger. “And I have no intention of sharing it with you. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on earth.”
Her brows rose. “That’s a bit drastic.”
“Get up,” he ordered.
“Why?”
“Get up and come to breakfast.”
She didn’t move. “Why? What is so important about breakfast?”
“It’s how things are done. Now get up before I pick you up.”
“I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”
“Devil take it!” he roared. “You are the most exasperating woman I have ever met.”
“That’s not the usual compliment I receive in my bedchamber, but I know you are out of practice.”
“That’s it.” He reached down and lifted her, bedclothes and all, into his arms. She was a tall woman, and he was surprised she felt so light.
And so soft.
Even with the bedclothes between them, he could feel the curves of her body.
“Put me down,” she demanded.
He marched toward the door, ignoring the startled stares of the servants standing there.
“You cannot really mean to carry me downstairs in this state.”
“You brought it upon yourself,” he replied.
“I am not a child, Will.”
“Don’t call me that.” He started down the stairs.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“This is beyond the pale,” she seethed. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
He did. He knew he was acting in the most ridiculous manner imaginable, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. She had tested the limits of his patience, and she had won. He’d snapped. He deserved to be carted off to Bedlam. That was the only explanation for his present conduct.
He marched past the row of servants on the ground floor, all of them pretending to be quite busy with their dusting. Since when did footmen dust? He kicked the door of the dining room open, stomped to the far end of the table, and glared at the footman looking as though he wanted to melt into the wall.
“Chair,” Pelham growled.
The footman jumped into action, pulling the courtesan’s chair out. Without ceremony, Pelham deposited her into it then walked, calmly, to his own place, opened the Times and began to read.
A footman filled his teacup with hot tea—black as he liked it. He heard another footman offering the courtesan an assortment of refreshments. In a pleasant voice, she asked for chocolate. Of course she would want something decadent.
He continued reading his paper—or at least pretending to. A moment later, the footman retreated to his spot against the wall, and the courtesan rose. He eyed her above his paper. She perused the contents of the sideboard, dragging the bedclothes behind her as though they were a train and she a queen. It did not matter that her feet were bare; it did not matter that her hair tumbled in an unruly mass down her back; it did not matter that that damned sleeve had fallen off her shoulder again. She acted as though being dragged out of bed, carried down the stairs, and dumped into a chair in the dining room were an everyday occurrence.
Perhaps it was.
He eyed his pocket watch. “It is now a quarter past eight,” he informed her. “You have precisely fifteen minutes to eat.”
He thought she would argue with him, but instead she said—without even glancing his way—“Do you ever cease looking at that watch of yours? I think it must be permanently affixed to your hand.”
“Some of us must live our lives on a schedule,” he answered.
She lifted a plate. “Eat on a schedule, sleep on a schedule, walk on a schedule. Tell me, do you visit the privy on a schedule, as well?”
He rose. “An inappropriate comment. I expect nothing less.”
Now she did look at him, those blue eyes frigid. “You are the one who dragged me out of bed, Will. I expected quite a bit more.”
He went to the sideboard and began to fill a plate without even looking at his choices. He piled food on the plate, sat, and ate mechanically. He couldn’t say why this last barb stabbed him when so many of her others completely missed their mark. He did not want to care what this fallen woman thought of him. He didn’t owe her anything. She had come to him. He should have turned her out.
He’d let her think he allowed her to stay because he wanted her present for the magistrate’s visit this morning, but that was not the whole truth. He’d seen something in her eyes as she stood in his parlor—something he very much believed to be fear. How could he turn a frightened woman out on the street?
That would make him too much like…
He clenched his fist around his fork. He wasn’t like him. He was nothing like him!
Except when Pelham thought of his behavior toward her—toward Juliette—this morning, he was reminded of his father. Not that his father would ever do something so outrageous as to carry an undressed woman down the stairs. In fact, his father would be appalled at Pelham’s behavior. He would have berated him severely had he witnessed it.
But the lack of hospitality—that was not something his father had cared about overly much. Pelham looked down the long table at the woman sitting across from him. And wasn’t that what had bothered him about her statement? She had called him ou
t on his lack of hospitality. She—a courtesan!
She was frowning at the Morning Chronicle, and for a moment her face lost some of its icy veneer.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her head jerked up, and she hastily closed the paper. “Is it time for a walk in the garden?”
“No.” But he wasn’t certain. He resisted the urge to check his watch and eyed the paper. “What were you reading?”
“An article about fashion.” She lied very smoothly, but somehow he knew it was a fabrication.
“Give me the paper.” He spoke to one of the scarlet-and-gold-attired footmen, who immediately approached the courtesan. She snatched the paper out of reach and hugged it close.
“You don’t want to do that, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace? Since when did I become Your Grace?”
“That’s right. Your name is Will. And I shall keep calling you Will.”
“Give the footman the paper.”
“But doesn’t it anger you that I call you Will, Will? Don’t you wish I would stop?” She was so obviously—and so desperately—trying to pick a fight.
“I wish you would give my man that paper.”
She rose, still hugging the paper. “No, you don’t, Will. You do not want to read what’s in this paper.”
He rose. “Why not?”
“Just trust me.”
He pushed his chair back and marched to stand before her. Her bedclothes were still on the chair, and in the bright morning light of the dining room, her nightshift appeared very thin indeed. He tried not to look, but he could see the contours of her body outlined through the thin linen. “Give. Me. The. Paper.”
“Very well.” She handed it to him. “But don’t blame me for this.”
He opened the paper and perused the first page. He saw nothing of interest. He turned to the second page and skimmed it. It was complete fluff but nothing to make a fuss about.
He looked up at her. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish it were.” She took the paper, found the page she wanted, and handed it back. “Read the Cytherian Intelligence column.”
“There’s a Cytherian Intelligence column?” He looked down and saw it there in black print. He read quickly, passing an item about a courtesan’s ball, one about Harriette Wilson, and another about the prince’s latest ladybird. And then he stopped breathing.
Last night, dear Reader, the Duchess of Dalliance and her Duke were finally seen together publicly at the Prince of Wales’s ball at Carlton House. But the rendezvous was not what was to be expected. The Duke of P– cut his lady in a most cruel fashion. Though our valiant Duchess held her head high in the face of such outright cruelty, it was clear the arrow pierced her heart.
“Oh, good God!” Pelham exclaimed, looking up at Juliette. “This is the worst sort of exaggeration and melodrama.”
“Keep reading.”
“I—” He looked down. “There’s more?”
The whisper at the ball was that the Duke was smitten with his newly betrothed, Lady E–, but if this is true, dear Reader, then why was the Duke of P– seen leaving the ball with the Duchess of Dalliance in his conveyance?
We have it on good authority that though the Duchess left the ball alone, her Duke chased after her in his carriage, begging her on bended knee—
“Bended knee! What rot is this? I should sue for libel. For slander!”
“Keep reading,” she said, sinking heavily into her chair.
—to return with him and to become his bride.
Pelham’s hands shook with fury. If Lady Elizabeth saw this… if anyone saw this, he would be disgraced. But of course all of London was sitting about the breakfast table at this very moment reading this complete rot and believing it.
He looked down to read the last of the column.
We at the Morning Chronicle sought out the wronged Lady E– for comment but were unable to find her. The rumor is that she’s fled to the countryside to mourn the loss of her Duke’s love.
He lowered the paper.
“I told you not to read it.”
Pelham could not speak. He could not even begin to form words.
“I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists.
“The interesting thing was that the writer was also unable to locate Lady Elizabeth. So it’s not only you and I who cannot find her. I think that should lend some validity to my statements about what I saw last night.”
“You think this—” He wanted to say paper, but could not even give it that much. Finally he pointed to it. “Lends you validity? As far as I’m concerned, you orchestrated this entire farce in order to gain notoriety.”
She sighed. “I knew you were going to blame me.”
“Whom should I blame?”
“I don’t know, but why blame me? How could I have possibly been responsible for this? Do you think—after what I saw last night—I want to be mentioned in the papers? No, I want to go into hiding. I want to be safe. Why else would I be here? With you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “To lend more weight to the article,” he said, pointing to the paper again. Now it made perfect sense. She had wanted to stay the night to further the rumors they were romantically involved. If anyone questioned his servants, they could honestly say she had slept in his house.
And he’d contributed even more fodder through his actions this morning.
Pelham had always given his servants strict instructions not to speak of what occurred in his household, and he thought them reasonably loyal to him. But everyone had his or her price. If someone wanted his servants to talk, they would find a way to get to them.
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “If what you claim is true, how did I convince Lady Elizabeth to disappear? How did I manage to have a pistol fired at me last night? How did I make you come after me in your carriage?”
These were all good points, but he wasn’t feeling generous this morning and was not about to acknowledge them as such. He knew the whole of London was laughing at him right now. He would make the paper and the courtesan pay for this.
He looked at her again, and she drew back. “Why are you looking at me like that? I told you—”
“Do not speak. I want you out of here. Now. This minute.”
“But—”
“Do not argue with me. And do not make me throw you out on the street. I will do it.” His voice rang in his ears, echoing a voice in the past. But he would not listen. He would not back down.
A sharp knock sounded on the dining-room door, and his butler entered.
“What is it, Richards?”
“The magistrate is here to see you, Your Grace.”
***
Juliette didn’t wait for Pelham to order her out again. Instead, she swept past him, her bedclothes trailing behind her. She was intent upon dressing and leaving as quickly as possible. She wasn’t certain where she would go—somewhere far away. Somewhere she would be safe.
She wanted to be safe from murderers and gossipmongers and overbearing dukes!
She had jewelry she could sell. She was not entirely destitute.
She had almost reached the stairs when a gasp drew her attention. She turned and saw a short man with a dark mustache and monocle standing in the parlor doorway. “By Jove! You’re the Duchess of Dalliance!”
Juliette could not have felt any less like a celebrated courtesan than she did at the moment. If only the ton could see her now.
Aware Pelham was probably directly behind her, Juliette made a show of curtseying and started for the staircase again.
“But wait!” The magistrate dove into the vestibule. “I… How are you?”
“She’s leaving.” Pelham’s
voice echoed and bounced off the marble.
“Your Grace.” The magistrate bowed. Juliette noted he was wearing unrelieved black. In contrast to Will’s stylish gray morning coat and snowy white cravat, the magistrate’s coat was ill-fitting and his cravat wrinkled. “I cannot believe it’s true. I read in the papers—”
“Silence!” Pelham smashed his fist on the newel post.
Juliette winced.
“Nothing in that bloody paper is true,” he stated, as though ordering it thus would make the article disappear.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” the magistrate said, but his gaze traveled back to Juliette, and it was clear he did not believe the duke.
“You’d do better to say nothing,” Juliette informed Pelham. “People will think what they want, no matter what the truth is.” She knew this from long experience. “Somehow protestations of innocence only make one seem guiltier. Am I correct, Mr.—?”
The magistrate’s monocle dropped onto his chest, and he rushed forward to bow before her. “Mr. Sharpsly. And yes, Duchess, you are correct.”
Pelham sighed. Loudly. “She is not a duchess.”
“I’m sorry.” Sharpsly never took his eyes from her. “What should I call you? I’ve never been this close to a cour—to someone of your stature before.”
Pelham moaned. “She’s not the bloody queen, man.”
Juliette held out her hand. “You may call me Juliette, Mr. Sharpsly. It’s what all my friends call me.”
“Juliette.” The magistrate breathed the word.
“But I’m afraid our friendship will be short-lived. Will has ordered me out.”
“Will?” Sharpsly’s brows rose.
“The duke.” She angled her head in Pelham’s general direction. “He thinks I had something to do with that piece in the Morning Chronicle.”
Sharpsly gave Pelham an accusatory frown, and Pelham’s expression of protest was priceless. Juliette thought it would be quite diverting to spend all day baiting Pelham, but she had Lucifer after her. She could not afford to dally.
“Good day, Mr. Sharpsly.” She started up the stairs.
“Madam,” the duke said.
Juliette paused. She couldn’t help it. The authority in his voice all but compelled her.
