by Gayle Eden
Chapter One
Juliette felt like she could finally breathe when the coaches arrived at the duke’s estate. She lived, survived—on these months, during the off-season, when they were at Chadwick hall. The duchess would take her rest, and the duke would retire to his study, so she went above whilst the servants were sorting through trunks and baggage, carrying them up to the proper rooms. The housekeeper was directing maids, along with the butler supervising footmen and chore boys.
Jahi and the Marquis had ridden ahead. Their servants passed her, going to the third floor and their apartments. She made her way to her own. Walking through the sitting room, to the bedchamber, she was already shedding her carriage coat and the matching lavender hat.
Before the mirror, she undid a dozen buttons down the carriage dress, sighing as the weight hit the floor. Next came the pins in her hair, deposited to the ornate box. Standing in her chemise and stocking feet, mane still coiled where it had been pinned up in back, Juliette eyed the full curves, generous breasts, and round hips that made up a body she assumed was a curse from her mother. She was only five feet and four inches tall. Juliette had seen females twice her size, yet she had been told since puberty that she was fat, so she magnified everything in her mind’s eye.
Oh, there were times eyeing art, that she thought herself to be beautiful, the female form itself being so sensual. Yet it never stuck for long. One glance, or giggles, from a group of young women, her peers, and she would have to shut down her emotions to protect herself from the hurt...
On her way to refresh in the bathing chambers, she smiled ironically at the reaction she had gotten in her first debut, whispers from other wrath-like girls, and stares from the men—raised brows from the duchess’s circle of influential hosts. The duchess made sure she had a lovely wardrobe, each year more fashionable, low cut, flattering, and of the richer colors. Her hair was always done up, the color not fashionable, but with jeweled combs, pens and nets, pert hats, it was tolerable. Her freckles would fade under the powders and treatments, though she got them again on every return to Chadwick.
She would never be acceptable. Aside from whom her guardians were—she had minor bloodlines, a modest dowry, and paled in comparison to the most popular beauties. It was almost more humiliating to be seen as (trying) to catch a husband, and she tried her best not to project that.
It did not matter. It was said. Thus, she found herself standing unflinching under the duke’s stare when he had told her he was considering accepting Hillman. She knew he wanted to hear any objections, but they had long since done their duty, kept their word to her father, and there weren’t many options out there.
She loved Thaddeus, the way she loved Mary, having tried not to—It was impossible not to. They had their ways and flaws, but there was no malice in them. That his Grace’s eyes were so like his sons made it doubly hard to ignore the imploring in them. So, she’d let him assume. When he nodded and sighed, came round and hugged and kissed her, she had nearly broken down and cried, clung to him. Nevertheless, she knew how to be strong and she had to be.
The snobbery in the duchess’s circles was appalling. No one cared for her mind, just as no one really cared for anything else about her—save that she kept her poise and her silence. London—was not about getting to know people. It was about titles and wealth, courting titles and wealth. It was also about drowning out their own insecurities in drink, laudanum, and affairs. The place was rife with hypocrites behind the strictures. It was that, growing up, maturing, age, observing others— that somewhat changed things for Juliette in time.
Still, it did not make people any kinder that they had their own flaws. Some were more vicious. Nevertheless, Juliette matured enough to know she was not going to live that life forever. She could not. Returning from every ball or play, feeling a hole in her stomach, a sick kind of hostility. The whole of the season was intolerable once debs got past that wide-eyed stage. She did really blame those who found some way of drowning everything out, only the cruel ones, who got some sort of sick satisfaction in tormenting others. Nothing mattered but that Juliette felt she had kept her word to the Marquis.
Stripped and running a cool wet cloth from her neck downward, she felt the faint stir of air on her flesh and saw the hardening of her deep pink nipples. There were memories, not shameful, but rather cherished ones of a moment when she loved herself, and enjoyed her own skin, and felt free of ghosts. For a brief moment, Juliette Palmer had flown, and it was not a sensation anything else in life had equaled thus far. Of course, that was marred too by guilt, and negative feelings, thanks to Megs tattling and everyone finding out.
Juliette went back to her bedchamber, digging through the wardrobe for trousers and shirt, ignoring Meg—whom she had ignored for years now—as the maid snorted mockingly while eyeing her nude body. She pulled on the male garb over stockings, whilst the servant unpacked her trunks. She had long since learned that ward or no, Meg’s word was taken over her own, and right or wrong in what she had done, Juliette no longer trusted the maid.
She grabbed her boots, pulled them on, and went out of the rooms, down the servant’s stairs, and to the back. A few of the younger servants greeted her and she returned in kind before walking out into the gardens. She closed her eyes, breathed in deep, in and out, recalling a feeling of wanting to run, run, and keep running, when she returned from London before.
Instead of going for her horse, she walked, not the careful lady-like steps, but strode down the lawn, past the hedges and toward the woodlands. Everything felt and smelled wonderful—Air, earth, breeze, and the hard packed path so well known, she allowed her to muse to run free while admiring the leafy trees, wildlife, and contrast of dappled sun and deeper shade. Nature had always been her refuge, her hiding place. Eyes did not judge her here. Nature changed, seasons did, but there was a constant in it.
Perhaps a mile in she stopped and found herself a seat on a stump, leaning back against the trunk of another tree grown into it. She pulled off her boots and stockings then laid them over to the side. Feet propped on a stone, she undid some of the buttons on her blouse.
Eyes closed, Juliette let herself just be for long moments, thankful for the escape of hundreds of eyes down a dinner table, or in the next box—or in a ballroom. Her mind was free here, as if cadged indeed whilst under the eyes of others. Although aware of nature around her, it was almost heady just to let the breeze tease her hair, flutter the thin linen against her beasts, and waft over her bare feet.
Eventually her mind went to Jahi. His accent was almost as British as Wolford’s, now, although his looks were more exotic. He grew more handsome every year. Even dressing in the English gentleman’s fashions in town, there was always something different about him. Yes, she’d come to recognize how often he looked at her, and they talked quite easily on many subjects. She was not immune to his handsome face and dark eyes, not ignorant of the fact he drew many admiring glances. She could not think of him at times without thinking of Wolford too though.
There had always been a tangle in her in response to the Marquis. There were childhood emotions and that first memory of opening her eyes and seeing his aristocratic face, those warm brown eyes and wavy brown hair. There were sharper images since his return, more matured, more honed, those bones more princely and eyes holding intelligence as well as worldliness.
Montgomery Laughlin….Monty…He would always be her childhood ideal of prince, savior, brave knight and anchor. She had been a child, confused about her mother’s never returning home from that voyage, blaming storms, and carrying a loathing of their fury. In constant ache with the knowledge her father was dying, that he would leave her too—and she would be among strangers. No shelter, no home, no stand-in mattered to a child that alone. Her father had been wrapped up in his loss and pain, finding forgetfulness in his books. However, she had nothing. Nothing—but running, climbing, trying to find some refuge—that never manifested itself.
For a brief time after Wolford
found her under that tree, when he had held her and she’d felt his lips on her forehead, her heart had opened wide. Then he too was leaving. There were no words to replace emotion, or make sense of things for her. Eventually, she could go through the motions, but her heart and soul stayed wounded. Others added to that.
Breathing deep through her nose, Juliette was able to remove the self-pity because she had long since discovered that emotion useless. There was nothing to do but what was expected of her. Moreover, she cared for the duke and duchess, yet never was able to really show it—or to anyone, because those closed doors were protecting her, helping her to survive young womanhood. Changes, blooming, came upon her without thought—had been another set of vulnerable and confusing emotions—made worse by the murmurs and comments of the maids who helped her dress.
Even the duchess, though likely unintended, changing her amounts of food and fretting with dressmakers when her measurements were taken. As kind as Lady Mary was, during that brief and sketchy talk before her menses, it was just one more thing in Juliette’s mind that she could not control. Then, there was that moment, that time with Peter, when she discovered wonderful things about her body—quickly turned into a thing of shame, risk, scandal, crossing all sorts of boundaries she was not supposed to have crossed.
That train of thought brought her back to Wolford. His was image clear, six feet and three, he had honed those patrician bones into something unique whilst wondering Egypt for eight years. It was little matter that he had been in England for the last three, because he was still handsome, still fit and physical, having made a reputation as solid as the duke’s, with a list of accomplishments that inspired as much respect as his titles and wealth.
Those times when he sought her out, keeping his word on that pact of friendship, she would be as fascinated as she had been when looking at him in a ballroom full of people, or at some lecture. His brown eyes were a mixture of that intellect and some earthiness she supposed came from the adventures that allowed him to hunt down artifacts, and explore the treasures of Egypt. His hair was thick, wavy, keeping those golden streaks in front, which enhanced the oak of his eyes.
Juliette often engaged him in conversation about those years just to hear the deep timbre of his voice. She could talk to him, could stand that better than she could when his gaze became more intimate, offering a listening ear and affection—the brothership he’d once called it.
She enjoyed watching the rapport between himself and Jahi, unusual in their bond and equals, despite their class difference. They were two extremely handsome and unique men, sharing a fascinating past and current working relationship—something like true brothers; she’d heard his Grace oft say. They managed somehow to be a part of the things their contemporaries were, whilst remaining uniquely separate.
She thought about their kiss too, each different, both equally stirring, but for very different reasons. She thought about Hillman, gray blue eyes, dark brown hair, silvering at the temples, five foot and seven, richly dressed—and about as exciting as she was, in public.
The scent of a cheroot brought her lashes open seconds before Juliette saw the Marquis. He leaned against a tree, opposite her, boot sole against it, and some sort of satchel on the ground by him. His gaze was on hers, so she gathered he had been looking at her face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up the forearms, his hair somewhat mussed.
Lifting her head from against the bark, she half expected him to lecture her for the provocative state of her dress, bare feet; blouse unbuttoned too low, though the days of that sort of scolding was far behind him. She was not sure she would call their relationship friendship however.
“Seems we had the same idea,” he murmured and lowered his foot. “Only I brought lunch.” He bent and scooped up the satchel, coming to sit on the ground beside the stump she sat on. “Help yourself.”
She didn’t at first, merely looking over him, watching his strong teeth hold that cheroot, noticing his lips were soft, semi full, remembering that kiss, before looking at his eyes again.
He did not meet them for a bit, because his had been on her breasts. Wolford recovered smoothly. They did move up, and he grabbed the pouch, extracting a bottle of chilled wine, fruit, which he sat on a napkin.
Uncorking the wine, he sipped from the bottle then handed it to her.
She took it, drank deeper than she wanted, then took one of the apples, simply because she was aware of a current between them.
After smoking, he was eating too, looking around at times. When she tossed her core, he offered more. She declined.
“Jahi and I are departing for Wolford Manor next week.”
That was one of his estates, so she offered, “Um. The duchess and his Grace mentioned that they would be joining some friends at Bath and then Brighton in a week’s time.”
“Are you joining them?”
“No. I have declined. These are old friends of your parents. The duke will be off sailing and what not. The duchess should enjoy the company of friends without me.”
“Would you like to join Jahi and myself?”
Juliette looked at him, considering. “I would be in the way.”
“Not at all.” He tossed his core too and wiped his hands then looked at her. “Though we may well bore you silly.”
“I doubt that.”
Packing the things away and corking the wine, Wolford set it aside and rested his forearm on an up drawn knee. “Mother has mentioned that she may not partake of the season next year.”
“Yes. We discussed it...”
His gaze searched her face. “Sir Garris Hillman asked for you.”
She nodded, meeting that gaze.
“And you are considering?”
“I’ve—acquiesced. I am a grown woman. The duchess should not feel obligated to keep up the pace of society, let alone endure the dampness and discomforts of London. Eventually, I have to make my way. They have fulfilled their obligation to my father.”
“You loathe society.”
Juliette looked away.
He further said, “And you don’t care a fig for Hillman.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He’s a bloody bore.”
She looked at him. “He is forty, eligible, passably handsome, with few vices I understand. He is wealthy, has an impressive home.”
“All right. But Hillman doesn’t care for you.”
She flinched and looked away.
“Juliette. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Didn’t you?” She got to her feet, half-aware that he had too, but her day was spoiled. “You are right—about Hillman, but that is irrelevant, as you well know.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it bloody sounded.” He almost growled, “What I mean was, he is simply ready to settle, and—”
“—And will settle for me.” She shot him a look.
“No.” He grabbed up the satchel, but tossed it, left it where it was, catching up with her. “Juliette…”
She stopped on the path and looked around, her insides in turmoil.
Then came that kinder, softer, voice that right now Juliette could not bear.
“That was unkind of me, no matter how I stated it. I am sorry.”
Juliette nodded and summoned up the nerve to look up at him. Wishing she had not, because he did affect her.
“You forgot your boots—and you had taken to calling me Monty of late...”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, hearing his soft laugh as she went back for them. Sitting down, she put them on and then flickering her glance up when she had.
“You should repair your blouse.”
Juliette did not right away. She stood, folded her arms, and was regarding him as he stood there in the woods. The same breeze stirring her hair and blouse, fluttered his open-throated shirt. His skin tone was still warm. His stance, one booted foot out, casually awaiting her.
Looking up his long and fit body and over his face, she realized that other than when they were up in L
ondon, she would rarely see him after her marriage. Monty was taking up his own estates and would not live in Kent.
Wetting her lips, Juliette supplied, “This is my last off season here.”
“One hopes not. My parents fully expect you to visit them.”
“That would be up to my husband.”
His jaw flexed. “Given their standing, titles and wealth, I rather think your—future husband—would court that connection.”
“You mean, he wanted me for it.”
A nerve ticked in his cheek.
“No don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t apologize and tell me you didn’t mean it that way. You did. We both know it.”
He sounded frustrated and angry, “Perhaps so, but that doesn’t mean you’ve nothing else to offer. It doesn’t mean—the way you take things, Juliette.”
Part of her wanted to cry, and part of her wanted to lash out. However, Juliette never did understand why she wanted Wolford to understand her. Why—he wanted to understand her either. In the bigger picture, he was a Marquis and was not a part of her real future or life. She had made him that. He—had made himself that.
Then, Monty uttered, “Please don’t marry him, Juliette.” It sounded rasped. His hands were fisted.
“Your father has accepted and generously supplied the dowry. I have no income of my own, Wolford.”
“You could—”
“What?” She uncrossed her arms and looked down at herself, “Become a companion, a nanny, perhaps? Her smile, when she gazed up at him, was bitter.
“Bloody Christ—Bloody!” He strode to her suddenly and cupped her head, then was kissing her almost brutally, for endless, endless, dizzying moments.
Clutching his arms, Juliette whimpered and fought a sinking into something powerful and overwhelming.
She heard a rider coming and shoved at him before stepping back with a breathless, “Someone is coming.”
