Chapter 17
Juliet, standing at the washstand and scrubbing the dust from her face, was so tired that she wanted to collapse. As she picked up a towel and patted her cheeks dry, she silently watched her husband, removing his sword and placing it atop the mantle. Behind him, the rich crimson velvet with which the walls were hung made a perfect backdrop for his natural, aristocratic elegance.
He was not himself. His shoulders were set, his expression as severe as she'd ever seen the duke's. He was not only unhappy, he was downright furious — though for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. Obviously, his being an aristocrat meant he did not understand, had never needed to understand, did not want to understand, the meaning of frugality. Perhaps he resented having it forced upon him. Perhaps he resented the fact that if he hadn't had her and Charlotte to look after, he would still have the rich lifestyle to which he was accustomed. Or perhaps he really did resent the fact that she'd been the one to take charge and accept the abbess's offer, after all.
But she'd had no choice but to take charge. Earlier, while standing outside the church, Juliet had realized with a sinking sense of resignation that responsibility for not only herself and Charlotte but also her aristocratic husband was going to fall on her shoulders. Now, however, that realization was teamed with fatigue and, in conjunction with the way her husband was acting, making her feel annoyed. Burdened. Angry.
The warnings had all been there, and she had ignored them. There were his family's cryptic comments, for a start. From Andrew — Gareth may be a rake, a wastrel, and a scourer ... The villagers call him 'the Wild One' — and from the duke — Indeed, whoever would have thought Gareth would go and make anything of himself. An impulsive marriage proposition, an attitude toward money she found both frightening and immature, and, of course, this morning's spending spree at the vicar's, when he'd thrown away so much her head had spun. Juliet put her fingertips to her suddenly throbbing brow. It was obvious that she'd have to be the one to control the money — and where it was spent. She was going to have to be the one to make major decisions, locate a place for them to live, and, in all likelihood, find work so that they could survive. She could not see Lord Gareth de Montforte, with his elegant hands and even more elegant blood, lowering himself to something so base as work. Charming and pampered he might be, but he was as naive and directionless as a five-year-old.
Stupid woman, she rebuked herself. She had allowed her desperate situation, his handsome face — and the fact that he was Charles's brother — to annihilate her good sense. Had she been thinking correctly, she would never have married a man who proposed marriage from a tree branch. Had she been thinking correctly, she wouldn't have let his charm override her judgment. It was her own damned fault.
Disgusted with herself, she yanked the pins from Charlotte's napkin and tossed them into a nearby bowl. You have no one to blame for this but yourself. He cannot help the way he's made, the fact he's nothing like Charles. You married him, and now you'll just have to make the best of things.
Make the best of things.
She had weathered many storms in her life; she would weather this one, too. If she had to go out and work as a seamstress in one of those squalid places in Spitalfields, then so be it. If she had to be a wet nurse for some rich woman's babe, then so be that, too. She had a good brain and two capable hands, and she would do what she had to do for their survival.
She picked up Charlotte, who was fussing and kicking, and set her down on the bed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gareth hefting her trunk onto a chair. He popped the lid and rummaged about, pulling out a square of clean linen. Then he looked up and met her gaze.
He smiled, tentatively, trying to ease the tension between them.
Juliet ignored him and returned her attention to Charlotte. She removed the infant's wet, dirty napkin and tossed it into the chamberpot for washing later. Though soiled, the baby was still forgiving, managing to bestow a smile as sweet as heaven's sunshine upon her mother. Juliet felt a sudden stab of guilt. Of shame. Not only had she betrayed Charles by marrying this less-than-capable brother of his, but her poor little baby, as well. Her poor little baby who should've been changed hours ago.
Angry tears stung her eyes. Tension built and boiled inside her. Her cheeks grew hot with suppressed anger, her movements became jerky and abrupt. She shoved an errant strand of hair out of her face, stormed to the washstand —
And collided with her husband.
He had been coming toward her with a piece of wet linen and a bowl half-filled with water. As he and Juliet bounced off each other, some of the water spilled onto the carpet, the rest down the front of his waistcoat. Ignoring it, Gareth held out the damp rag like a truce offering. "Here."
"What's that for?"
"She needs washing, doesn't she?"
"What do you know about babies?"
"Come now, Juliet. I am not entirely lacking in common sense."
"I wonder," she muttered, spitefully.
He summoned a polite though confused smile — and that only stoked Juliet's temper all the more. She did not want him to be such a gentleman, damn it! She wanted a good, out-and-out row with him. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of him, of his reckless spending, of his carefree attitude toward serious matters. Oh, why hadn't she married someone like Charles — someone capable, competent, and mature?
"What is wrong, Juliet?"
"Everything!" she fumed. She plunged the linen in the bowl of water and began swabbing Charlotte's bottom. "I think Perry was right. We should go straight back to your brother, the duke."
"You should not listen to Perry."
"Why not? He's got more sense than you and the rest of your friends combined. We haven't even been married a day, and already it's obvious that you're hopelessly out of your element. You have no idea what to do with a wife and daughter. You have no idea where to go, how to support us — nothing. Yet you had to come charging after us, the noble rescuer who just had to save the day. I'll bet you didn't give any thought at all to what to do with us afterward, did you? Oh! Do you always act before thinking? Do you?"
He looked at her for a moment, brows raised, stunned by the force of her attack. Then he said dryly, "My dear, if you'll recall, that particular character defect saved your life. Not to mention the lives of the other people on that stagecoach."
"So it did, but it's not going to feed us or find us a place to live!" She lifted Charlotte's bottom, pinned a clean napkin around the baby's hips, and soaped and rinsed her hands. "I still cannot believe how much money you tossed away on a marriage license, no, a bribe, this morning, nor how annoyed you still seem to be that we didn't waste God-knows-how-much on a hotel tonight. You seem to have no concept of money's value, and at the rate you're going, we're going to have to throw ourselves on the mercy of the local parish or go begging in the street just to put food in our bellies!"
"Don't be ridiculous. That would never happen."
"Why wouldn't it?"
"Juliet, my brother is the Duke of Blackheath. My family is one of the oldest and richest in all of England. We are not going to starve, I can assure you."
"What do you plan to do, then, work for a living? Get those pampered, lily-white hands of yours dirty and calloused?"
"Juliet, please. You try my temper."
"Well, what use is a rich and powerful brother if you won't go to him for help? This is not a game! This is a serious matter! I'm a young mother with a baby to consider, and I must know how you plan to support us!"
"I don't know yet. But I shall think of something." He turned away. "Have a little faith in me, for heaven's sake."
"I'm trying to, but ... it's just that ... oh, this has turned out to be the worst day of my entire life, and I don't see it getting any better." Tears gathered in her eyes and she shoved the heel of her hand against her temple, her bottom lip quivering.
He was there, immediately. "Ah, Juliet ..."
"Leave me alone."
"I cannot
stand to see you suffering so."
"Then go away. Please."
He shrugged out of his frock, tossed it over the chair back, and tried to gather her close. "Is it so bad?"
"Yes."
"Worse than the day you left Boston to come here?"
She waved him off, turning away to hide her sudden, angry tears.
"Worse than the day you got held up by the highwaymen?"
She took a steadying breath and bit savagely down into her tremulous bottom lip.
"Worse," he murmured, gently, "than the day Charles died?"
She choked back a sob and pushed her fist against her mouth, trying to shove the tears back, to keep the great, gulping sobs at bay. "Nothing could be worse than when Charles died," she whispered, meeting his sympathetic blue gaze. She turned her back on him and walked a little distance away. "Nothing."
He came silently up behind her, too near, too close, and she felt the tender brush of his hand against her cheek as he caught the stray tendril of hair and tucked it back behind her ear. "Then I guess this isn't quite the worst day of your life, is it?" he asked, softly.
Tremors rippled through her body. Her nose burned and her throat ached and she balled her fists at her sides, but she would not cry in front of him. And she would not lean back against that strong, solid chest and let him shoulder her burden of pain, fear, and worry. At the thought, a bitter laugh nearly escaped her lips. He, who was incapable of figuring out where to bring them, what to do with them, how to support them! She jerked away, putting a safe distance between them once again and, sweeping up the baby, pressed her close to her chest. "You've made your point, Gareth," she said sharply. "Now, please leave me alone."
He looked suddenly weary. "And you, madam, have made yours. In future, I shall be more careful about where I spend our money."
His tone was one of polite and formal stiffness. Her cheek resting against Charlotte's downy head, she watched him move across the room to light another candle against the gathering gloom. They stood there in silence, she holding the baby, he staring at the candle. From downstairs came the distant sound of laughter.
Finally, her shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Gareth."
He shrugged, but didn't turn around. "Yes. I am, too. You deserve better than this. Both of you do."
"I suppose we'll just have to make the best of it."
He nodded, his gaze still on the candle as its light danced and flickered across his face, the wall behind him.
"I didn't mean to be cruel," she explained, her words sounding lame even to her own ears. She came tentatively up behind him, rested a hand on his arm. "It's just that I'm tired and — well, scared. You, on the other hand, don't seem worried in the least, and your total indifference about our predicament rather got to me, that's all." She gave an apologetic little smile. "I guess I just want you to be as worried about things as I am."
He turned then, taking her hand within his. "Ah, Juliet. Of course I'm worried," he admitted. "But I'm not going to dwell on it. I mean, how will it help us if I worry? It won't find us a place to stay tomorrow, put food in our bellies, or keep us free from want."
"No, I suppose it won't."
They were silent for a moment, heads bent, bodies close, hearts reaching to comfort and console one another. Her hand was still within his, and as his thumb tentatively stroked her knuckles, warm shivers hurried through her.
Shivers she was determined to ignore.
His mouth curved in the beginning of a sudden smile. "Know something, Juliet?"
"What?"
"I was terribly angry with you, but now that I think about it, it's all rather funny."
"Funny?"
"Yes; I mean, here we are, married and having our first row about money. My brother probably has half of England out looking for us. I'll wager he's gone to de Montforte House, Burleigh Place, and all of the Den members's homes in search of us, and where are we? Holed up in the most exclusive bawdy house in London!" His eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. "Oh, what an adventure we're having!"
She shook her head, pitying him for not seeing the seriousness of a situation she saw as grave. "I still don't think it's funny, Gareth."
"Don't you?"
"No."
"Well —" he folded his arms, jauntily, defiantly — "I do."
The teasing light was back in his eyes, his chin dimpling beneath its haze of golden-brown stubble, and despite herself, Juliet couldn't help her own reluctant little smile.
Just as she couldn't help the way she was noticing certain things about him ... how his sleeveless waistcoat, fitting so snugly over the linen shirt just beneath, emphasized the span of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the lean tautness of his fighting-trim waist. How the snowy lace that spilled from his throat and over his wrists emphasized his chin and the natural grace of his hands. How his buff breeches seemed to be painted on to his hips and long, muscular thighs; how very tall he was, and how powerful he looked. Sudden heat washed through her. He had a splendid form. He had a splendid face. He was splendid, period, a de Montforte through and through — and Juliet's sudden shock about the direction of her thoughts far surpassed her fears about how this charming wastrel was going to support them.
I am not supposed to feel this way. This is Charles's brother — not Charles!
Her husband misinterpreted the reason for her silence.
"Well then, Juliet, since you can't find anything funny about our predicament, let's see what Charlotte can do," he announced with a flippant, offhand charm. And then, before she could protest, he plucked the baby from her arms, laid her on the bed, and tickled her until she batted at his hands and began shrieking with delight. "See? Charlotte thinks it's funny, don't you, Charlie-girl?"
The baby, who obviously adored him, gurgled and squealed, and Juliet found herself staring at the tender picture the two of them made; he, so tall and strong and masculine, her daughter, so tiny and helpless. She swallowed, hard. There was something deep and moving in this powerful image of Lord Gareth de Montforte as a father — a role that seemed to come as easily to him as flight to a bird.
Her heart beat faster as she finally acknowledged what she'd been afraid to admit all along.
She desired him.
Desired him so badly it scared her.
He glanced over at her, grinning. She shook her head and folded her arms, feigning annoyance but unable to prevent the growing amusement from sparking her eyes. Then he bent over Charlotte, his nose nearly touching hers, a few locks of hair tumbling over his brow and brushing the baby's forehead. He put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his cheeks wide, all the while making an absurd gurgling noise and glancing playfully at Juliet out of the corner of his eye to ensure that she was watching, too. He looked completely ridiculous. Worse, he knew he looked completely ridiculous and reveled in it. Unbidden, a burst of laughter escaped Juliet, mingling with Charlotte's happy shrieks. Letting go of his cheeks, Gareth laughed right along with them, a big, happy sound that brightened the room as the candles never could have done. It was warm laughter, family laughter, the kind of laughter that Juliet had never expected to share in ever again.
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 soft 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.
The Wild One Page 41
