~~~~
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."
Juliet, still standing outside, hugged herself and traced a design on the rug with her toe while Lady Nerissa conversed with the maid.
The matronly woman who had made off with Charlotte emerged from the room, yawning. "Lord Andrew 'ad it done, milady. Said 'e didn't think mother and daughter'd want to be separated. Also said it was too short notice to find a wet nurse in the village, so the babe would 'ave to stay in 'ere with 'er mother instead of up in the nursery. The little mite's a-sleepin' now, but I 'spect she'll need a feedin' soon."
"My goodness! I am amazed that Andrew knows anything about such matters," Lady Nerissa mused, raising her brows.
Juliet lifted her head. "Thank you for your help, Martha." She turned to Charles's sister. "And you, too, Lady Nerissa. You have all been so kind to us."
Martha beamed. "Think nothink of it, mum. We ain't 'ad a babe in this 'ouse for far too long, if'n ye ask me."
"Indeed," Nerissa said wryly. "Off with you now, Martha. I am sure Miss Paige wishes to rest. We can both see Charlotte at breakfast."
"Yes, milady. Lookin' forward to it, I am!"
Martha bobbed in a curtsy and ambled off down the hall.
Nerissa watched her go. "I sense that you're an independent sort, but if you need Molly's assistance, there's a bellpull behind the bed." She put her hands on Juliet's arms, looking at her for a long moment before pulling her forward in a quick embrace. "I'm so glad you've come here. Good night, now, and I shall see you in the morning."
Juliet returned the other woman's smile. "Good night, Lady Nerissa."
Charles's sister moved off down the hall, her footfalls fading. Juliet stood watching her, hating to see her go. But she had to face the inevitable. Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the door ... and entered the room that had belonged to Charles.
All was still. Dark. A sleepy fire crackled in the hearth, and before it, in silhouette, stood a brass bath and a towel stand and the cradle that held Charlotte. Juliet took a step forward, softly closing the door behind her. A great curtained bed filled the shadows. Dim shapes marked out furniture. On a chest of drawers, a lone candle flickered in the drafts, a tiny finger of light against the darkness. Arms at her sides, barely able to breathe, Juliet stood very still in the silence, letting it engulf her.
Charles.
She had thought to feel him here, but the room was empty. There was only the little candle, herself, and her sleeping daughter. Nothing else. No overwhelming sense of his presence, no lingering hint of his scent, no rush of memories, nothing. It was just a room, and nothing more.
She moved slowly around the huge, chilly chamber, her skirts whispering over the floor he had once walked, her fingers trailing atop the furniture that had once held his clothes. He was not here. He was as far away from her here, as he had been all these past lonely months in Boston.
Oh, Charles… I have never felt so alone in all my life.
The fire snapped. A little shower of embers trickled through the grate, a mournful sound in the darkness. She leaned against the bedpost and gazed dismally at their red glow, feeling somehow betrayed by his absence, feeling sad and confused and lonely and lost.
"Charles...."
But there was no answer.
The baby awoke, whimpering. Juliet went to the cradle, picked her up, and hugged her to her breast, rocking back and forth in quiet, dry-eyed agony. Charlie-girl, Lord Gareth had called the baby. What an endearment. Grief welled up in the back of her throat.
He's dead, Juliet. Dead and gone. Doesn't this empty, lifeless room prove it?
She held Charlotte close for a long time, gathering what comfort she could from her baby and trying, in vain, to cling to something she'd once had but would never have again. The wild and breathless euphoria of first love. A heart that had leaped with joy at just the thought of her handsome British officer. How young and naive she had been, assuming that with Charles she had found her "forever," that death would never touch someone as youthful, as virile, as he had been. And how far away those memories, that giddy, soaring, girlish excitement, now felt.
And yet something inside her had stirred tonight when she'd seen his brother — beautifully masculine, powerfully muscled — lying in his bed, his nakedness covered only by a loose sheet. Something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Desire.
She shook her head. No wonder she didn't feel Charles here. How could she, with the image of that splendid younger brother emblazoned so vividly across her brain?
"Ouch!" Charlotte had grasped a lock of Juliet's hair, yanking it hard from its pins and reminding Juliet that she had someone else to think of besides herself. Gently, she pried the hair from the baby's fist and pulled up a chair, where she sat nursing her daughter and staring into the red embers of the dying fire. She thought of Charles. She thought of her reaction to Lord Gareth. She thought how horrible she was for even having such a reaction.
And eventually, she became so tired she didn't think at all.
The water was cool by the time she had finished tending to Charlotte, shed her soiled clothes, and crawled, shivering, into the bath. It had grown much colder still when she finally emerged. She toweled herself dry, put on her nightgown and crawled beneath the cool, crisp sheets, her cheek sinking into the feathery softness of the pillow that had once held his dear head.
His pillow, his room, his bed.
And he had probably been the last one to sleep in it.
She pulled the other pillow close and curled her body around it, hugging it and staring at the shadows flickering against the far wall. Then she closed her eyes ... and dreamed of Charles.
She saw him again, the fine British officer on his mighty charger, surveying his troops with a coolly assessing eye as they filed smartly past. She lived again that moment when he'd first caught her watching from the window and had touched his cocked hat in acknowledgement. And she was there once more, on that day he'd finally stridden into the shop ... spoken to her ... met her behind the woodshed two weeks later, where they'd shared that first magical kiss
, and she had found herself enfolded within the hard circle of his arms. Oh, Charles. She sighed softly and turned over, sinking back down into the depths of sleep.
The dream faded out.
Charles?
Oh, my dearest love, come back!
But Charles was no longer there. Someone else was coming toward her now ... someone riding out of a rainy English night, lifting a pistol, tumbling through fierce, stinging nettles to shield the child in his arms even as the ball tore into his side.
She ran to him, and when she lifted his head from the nettles, the sleepy, down-tilted eyes that gazed up at her were not Charles's, but Lord Gareth's.
The Wild One Page 15
