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They caught the stage out of London. This time, there were no highwaymen to lend excitement and danger to their journey, no muddy roads to slow them, no rain pouring out of the sky to make the trip a miserable one for those riding on the roof. The team was eager to be off, and they were out of London and on their way in no time.
Sitting inside with Charlotte on her lap and her husband dozing in the seat just across from her, Juliet lost in thought as she stared out at the shifting clouds and changing scenery. Uncertainty prickled her spine. She may have trusted her husband's fidelity during his three-day absence, but she didn't have quite so much faith in this dubious scheme that filled him with such excitement. He was a nobleman, bred to a life of leisure and elegance. As a second son blessed with charm and charisma, she could see him as an MP, or even an ambassador to some foreign post; but she could not envision him lowering himself to something so vulgar as swordfighting for show. What was he getting them into?
At least Abingdon, just south of the university city of Oxford, was not so far from the Duke of Blackheath that she could not send to His Grace for help, if they needed it.
Not that Gareth ever would. At her questioning, he'd confessed — somewhat reluctantly and in no great detail — where he'd spent the remainder of their wedding night. Just the thought of him sleeping in the cold, wet mews made her want to strangle him. His pride was going to be the downfall of them all if she didn't keep a check on it. It was what had kept him shivering in the mews when he could have joined her at de Montforte House. It was what prevented him from bringing them all back to Blackheath Castle and the duke's more-than-competent care. But he had decided to accept Snelling's offer, and, as an impoverished aristocrat, that had to be plenty galling in itself.
Why had he done so?
She gazed at his peaceful face, framed by hair that had come loose from his queue and now tumbled haphazardly over his brow. He had no trouble setting aside his pride to work for a man who ranked far below him in status and breeding — yet the world might end before he would seek Lucien's help. Was that pride, then, all tied up with his relationship with his autocratic older brother? The inevitable, annoying — and hurtful — comparisons to Charles? Whatever it was, it was obvious he wanted to prove himself, if not to her, then to Lucien, and Juliet found herself desperately hoping that he would succeed.
They stopped to change horses at a coaching inn. Several passengers alighted from the roof, and three more got on. On the seat opposite, Lord Gareth stretched his long legs, yawned, and leaned the side of his head against the squab, giving her a sleepy, confident smile before drifting off once more. His knees were crammed against hers, and only the fact that there were other passengers inside the coach kept her from putting her hand on that hard thigh of his and leaning over to kiss his parted lips. How boyish and charming he looked, as though he didn't have a care in the world. She shook her head with a little smile. In all likelihood, he didn't.
Of all the nonsense Lady Brookhampton had gone on about, one thing was certain: He and Charles were chalk and cheese. She could not quite see Charles bringing them all on some half-baked adventure and then dozing off with total confidence that everything would turn out just fine. She could not quite see Charles drawing his rapier and displaying his fighting skills for money.
She could not quite see Charles, period.
Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. She had not looked upon Charles's face for over a twelve-month, and it came as something of a shock to realize that his features had now grown fuzzy and distant in her memory. When she tried to envision Charles's serious mouth, all she saw was Gareth's slow, teasing grin. When she tried to recall the timbre of Charles's voice, all she heard was Gareth's careless laughter. When she tried to remember what it had been like to make love to Charles, all she could evoke was that steamy, intense night at Mrs. Bottomley's, when her virile husband had brought her to heights that had robbed her of air and made her feel dizzy and faint and gloriously alive.
Inadvertently, her gaze went to those long-fingered, aristocratic hands lying loosely in his lap, and as she recalled what he had done with them — and with that mouth that looked so lazy and relaxed at the moment — she squirmed, her body aching with sudden longing. Her breasts tingled and her heart gave an erratic flutter. And then she remembered, almost guiltily, the man who lay dead and buried three thousand miles away. The man who had fathered her little daughter.
"Charles," she whisperered, trying to call his memory back. She quietly reached for the miniature that hung from around her neck, letting it rest upon her palm as she looked down at it. It had been painted in Boston two months before Charles's death, the artist's tiny, exquisite brush strokes perfectly capturing his likeness. She gazed at it for a long time. Gazed at the pale hair that he had powdered for the portrait, the firm, soldierly mouth, the ambition in those deceptively lazy blue eyes.
And felt only a strange nothingness.
Carefully, Juliet tucked the miniature back beneath her bodice so that it rested once more against her heart. Then, cuddling her daughter, she looked out the window, thinking about her growing feelings for Gareth — and her dwindling ones for Charles.
She never noticed that on the seat opposite her, Gareth had woken, and was quietly watching her.
The Wild One Page 53
