by Anna Bennett
“Please, don’t be too harsh with me. I’ve been tortured by the memory of that night on the terrace.”
She glanced around to make sure no one had overheard him. “Tortured?” she asked, incredulous. “I suppose that is why you’ve decided to toss my uncle out of his home?”
He blinked slowly, then frowned. “What are you talking about, Juliette?”
“Do not play coy with me,” she whispered. “You sent your brother so you wouldn’t have to sully your own hands.”
“My brother? You and your uncle live in the house on Hart Street?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I had no idea.”
Julie was reluctant to take him at his word, but a sprout of hope took root in her chest nevertheless. Perhaps the whole thing was a huge misunderstanding. Nigel would fix it, and Uncle Alistair would be free to remain in his home with his beloved Elspeth. “But … how is it possible you didn’t know?”
“I own a great many properties, Juliette,” he said, his tone slightly patronizing. “I cannot know the details of each and every one.”
“But now that you are aware,” she began cautiously, “that my uncle has lived in the house for decades, will you allow him—and me—to stay?” She held her breath as she awaited his answer.
He looked over his shoulder, pulled her closer, and whispered, “We are surrounded by curious ears. Perhaps we should continue this discussion outside?”
Alarms sounded in Julie’s head. The last time she’d ventured outside with the marquess, she’d succumbed to temptation, and the slightly heady feeling she had from the pressure of his hand on hers suggested she was no more capable of resisting him now than she was then. But she simply had to discuss the matter of her uncle’s house with him—and who knew when she’d have another opportunity?
“We may not tarry long,” she said hesitantly, “or Charlotte will become concerned.”
“We wouldn’t want that.” Nigel’s gaze slid from Julie’s face, lower, to the swells of her breasts. “But it will be infinitely easier for us to talk where we have a modicum of privacy.”
“And all we will do is talk,” she said pointedly.
“Of course.” His eyelids grew heavy and a smile spread across his handsome face. “What else would we do?”
* * *
Sam sat across a chessboard from Wiltmore in the man’s cluttered study, half irritated and half amused that a man in his seventh decade was beating him. Handily.
But in fairness, his mind wasn’t entirely on the chess match. He flicked a glance at the clock on the mantel and made his last—fatal—move.
“Checkmate,” Wiltmore said, his face splitting into a crooked grin. “But you were a worthy opponent. Almost as skilled as Juliette, isn’t that right, Elspeth?” He looked up at his late wife’s portrait as though the young, smiling woman might respond.
Sam coughed, suddenly uncomfortable. “I shall leave you to savor your victory. I’m for bed.” He stretched his arms as though exhausted, gave a polite bow, and headed toward the stairs.
But instead of ascending the staircase, he sneaked past it, toward the front door. The house was quiet, and Mr. Finch was nowhere to be seen.
It was the easiest thing in the world to slip out of the front door, unnoticed.
Glad that he’d dressed in his finest jacket for dinner, Sam strolled down the street looking for a hackney cab to take him to the Breckinridge Ball.
A quarter of an hour later, he paid the driver with a few coins his valet had delivered and hopped out of the cab in front of an elegant, brightly lit Mayfair townhouse.
During the short drive, he’d debated his options. He could walk through the front door, make his way into the bustling ballroom, and do his best to remain out of Juliette’s sight—so she wouldn’t discover that he’d left her uncle’s house and broken his promise to her.
Or he could skulk around to the back of the house like a common criminal, wander onto the terrace, and peer through the windows, hoping for a glimpse of her. He might even learn the identity of the man who’d captured her affections.
Neither option was particularly appealing, but since he wasn’t in the mood for socializing—at least not with anyone besides Juliette—he settled on the skulking route. With a little good fortune, he’d satisfy his curiosity and be back in her uncle’s house before she returned from the ball.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Julie allowed Nigel to steer her around a group of elderly matrons sipping lemonade and past a pair of debutantes standing awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor. Knowing all too well what it felt like to be in their slippers, she cast them an encouraging smile.
A mere year ago, she’d felt invisible. And on the rare occasion that she and her sisters had succeeded in capturing the attention of the ton … it was for all the wrong reasons. Society’s elite had mocked them for their hideous gowns and their loyalty to their eccentric uncle.
But not tonight.
Tonight, in her daring red gown, Julie was the opposite of invisible. It had been disconcerting at first, being on the receiving end of so many admiring glances. Men who’d once scorned her now stared with undisguised appreciation. Women who’d snubbed her now looked upon her with grudging respect.
Julie soaked it all in … but wondered why the one man whose attention she’d craved hadn’t sought her out until tonight.
Very aware of Nigel’s hand at the small of her back, she allowed him to guide her out of the ballroom doors and into the cool evening air. A few lanterns hung from the boughs of a tree, illuminating a stone bench in the corner of the terrace.
“Shall we sit?” he said smoothly.
Julie swallowed, wishing that the terrace wasn’t quite so deserted. Walking onto a moonlit terrace with Nigel was a bit like walking into a bakery while trying to slim down. Decidedly ill-advised.
And yet, she couldn’t say no. She needed to understand why he’d neglected to call on her. She needed to convince him to let her uncle stay in his home. Above all, she needed to know if Nigel was truly as heartless as he seemed.
Nodding, she walked to the bench and sat on one end, careful to keep some distance between them.
“Here we are … again.” Nigel shot her a conspiratorial smile.
“I can only stay a moment,” Julie said, hoping to signal there would be no encore of their previous dalliance. “You said you wished to explain. I’m listening.”
“As I said, I’ve been unable to forget you.” He reached for her hand. “The memory of that night haunts me—the feel of you in my arms, the taste of your lips—”
Julie pulled away. “I was there,” she said dryly. “The things you said … and the things we did … well, I thought that they meant something to you.”
“They did.” He scooted closer on the bench while gazing earnestly into her eyes. “I meant everything I said … about wanting you.”
“And yet, you did not call on me or even write me a note. What was I to think?”
“Juliette,” he breathed, smoothing a curl away from her face. “You must have faith in me. It is difficult for someone like me … that is, a marquess must necessarily put duty before pleasure.”
She blinked, trying to follow his reasoning. “Allow me to make sure I understand correctly. You’re so consumed with your duty you cannot spare an hour to call on me?”
“No.” He looked down, his handsome face shadowed by regret. “But duty requires me to marry strategically. No matter how much I might want to follow my heart, I must think of what’s best for my estate.”
Blood pounded in her ears and her hands clenched the edge of the bench. “What’s best for your estate,” she repeated evenly.
“And for my family name. I’ll admit it’s not fair, and I wish to God it weren’t the case, but…” He sighed, as though he were relieved to have that bit of unpleasantness off his chest.
Julie resisted the urge to run back into the ballroom. His words stung more than they should have.
“And why, p
recisely, am I unsuitable? Is it because my father was a vicar?”
Nigel swallowed uncomfortably. “That’s part of it—yes. And of course, there’s the matter of…”
She knew what he was going to say, and yet she wanted him to say it. “There’s no need to prevaricate. Tell me.”
“Your uncle.” He reached for her hand again, but Julie felt dazed, detached from her body. “It’s natural that you would care for him, but surely you understand that his unconventional mannerisms make him rather—”
She snapped her gaze to his. “Charming? Refreshing? Brilliant?”
“Of course, all those things. But also odd. Forgive me for being so blunt, Juliette. The last thing on earth I’d wish to do is hurt you.” He raised her hand and pressed a kiss to the back.
Her whole body went numb. At last, she knew the truth—Nigel thought she wasn’t good enough.
Oh, she knew he was mistaken—dead wrong, in fact—but hearing him speak the words was a slap in the face nonetheless. He was the man she’d allowed to kiss her, the man she’d foolishly imagined she might give her heart to.
Worse, if he and his brother were to be believed, he possessed the deed to her uncle’s house.
And she had to tread very carefully if she wished to ensure her uncle could remain there.
She raised her chin. “You knew who I was, before you … that is, before we…”
“I did.” He had the good grace to look contrite. “But I was powerless to resist you, Juliette. I still am. You must know that I would do anything for you.”
Anything, perhaps, but risk sullying his reputation. Still, he looked so vulnerable and sincere … this was the opening she needed. “If that is true, I have but one request, and it is simple. Allow my uncle to remain in his home.”
His icy blue gaze sharpened, as though he realized their conversation had taken a turn from romance to business. “You could have asked me for pretty poetry or jewels, but instead, you ask a favor for your uncle.”
“Do not forget that I live there too.”
He shrugged. “Yes, but either of your sisters would be happy to take you in, would they not?”
“Of course, but…”
He stood and paced the terrace in front of the bench, the heels of his boots clicking on the smooth slate. “Your devotion to your uncle is admirable, and I wish I could help. Truly, I do. But it’s a complicated legal matter. I could probably consult with my solicitor, but…”
“But what?” she countered.
“I’d like some assurance that you aren’t simply taking advantage of my tender feelings for you.”
A shiver ran the length of her spine. “What are you suggesting?”
He paused and faced her, his expression wounded. “Only that I would wish for some encouragement—a sign that you return my feelings. Do you?”
She stood and laced her fingers together to keep her hands from trembling. “I don’t know. After we…”
“Kissed?” he said huskily.
“I thought I cared for you.” She’d relived that kiss a hundred times over, savoring the genuine affection in his eyes. But perhaps it had only been desire.
“And now?”
“I find myself in a predicament.” She folded her arms, rubbing the exposed skin above her gloves. “My heart remembers our kiss fondly, but my head says I deserve a gentleman who respects me.”
“Oh God, Juliette, I do. I hold you in the highest esteem.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, and steered her away from the light of the lanterns, beneath a vine-covered trellis. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight? Or that when I saw you dancing with those other men, I thought I’d go mad with jealousy?”
After weeks of wondering what, if anything, Nigel felt for her, his words were a balm to her pride. But they weren’t enough. Not after the things he’d said. “Did you expect me to sit in my parlor, waiting for you to call and facing disappointment day after day?”
His hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, and his heated gaze dropped to the swells of her breasts. “Of course not, darling. But you must know that I did not forget you—not for a moment. Give me some more time, and I’ll find a way for us to be together.”
The combination of his impassioned speech and ardent stare had a potent, heady effect. “And what of my uncle’s house?” she managed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured, as his hands slid down her back, coaxing her hips closer to his.
One kiss, she thought. One kiss to see if the magic is still there.
Breathless, she turned her face up to his—
—just as the trellis above them crashed down.
Chapter FIFTEEN
Shit.
Sam crouched behind a trellis overrun with vines, unbelieving, as Juliette stood on the Breckinridges’s terrace … with his brother.
A gurgling fountain nearby had drowned out most of their conversation, but in the light of the lanterns, Sam could see the besotted expression on Nigel’s face as he gazed at her with undisguised desire. He could see his brother’s hands caressing her skin.
And he almost retched at the sight.
It couldn’t be coincidence that Nigel had sent him to toss Juliette and her uncle out of their house. But even if Nigel wasn’t the saint Sam had imagined him to be, he was no scoundrel.
Sam was the one who was regularly featured in the gossip rags—he was the one who was a source of constant disappointment. Not Nigel.
And yet, the evidence before him was hard to refute.
Nigel and Juliette had formed some sort of attachment … and now Sam was in the middle of it. Which was the very last place he wanted to be.
Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Juliette’s face. Beneath her cool façade he detected a hint of distress, and an odd tingling at the base of his spine wouldn’t let him leave her, just in case she needed him.
So he watched as Nigel steered her away from the lanterns, closer to Sam’s hiding spot behind the trellis. Too close, damn it.
He had to move, quickly. He crouched and began crawling toward the cover of a waist-high hedge—then stopped short.
The shoulder of his jacket caught on the trellis’s frame, holding him prisoner.
Nigel and Juliette were only yards away and would surely spot him if he didn’t free himself quickly. He pulled harder, willing to sacrifice his jacket if it meant he could escape undetected and save all involved a heap of embarrassment.
But he remained stuck.
He had no choice but to throw his whole body into the effort. Holding his breath, he counted to three and prepared to lunge.
One, two, three …
Crash. He managed to pull himself free, but took half the damned trellis with him in the process. The other half listed toward the terrace, balancing for one hopeful moment before tumbling down, directly toward Juliette. Panic flooding his veins, he scrambled to his feet to rescue her from the mess—
But of course he was too late.
Nigel shielded her, letting the falling posts and scraps of wood bounce off his back. Sam took a step toward them, then froze.
Neither Juliette nor Nigel had seen Sam on the other side of the rubble—Nigel was too preoccupied with pulling ivy leaves out of Juliette’s hair; she was busy brushing the dust off his jacket.
As they fussed over each other, Sam slowly retreated.
Juliette didn’t need him.
And if Nigel discovered he’d been spying on them, he’d skewer Sam alive.
So he stayed in the shadows as he rounded the corner of the house, keeping his head low. He paused as a few curious guests who’d heard the ruckus spilled out onto the terrace. Listened as they proclaimed his brother a veritable hero for protecting Juliette.
Sam sighed, wishing that for once, he’d been the one to save the fair maiden.
He would have liked to be the one checking her for scrapes and telling her not to fret about his ruined jacket—that he’d sacrifice a hundred jackets to keep her
safe.
In truth, he was more like the villain in her story—the one who’d darkened her doorstep, bringing distressing news about her uncle’s house. The one who’d failed to keep his end of the bargain and then managed to knock down the trellis on top of her.
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he left the gardens and strode in the direction of Juliette’s house. It was a long walk, but he welcomed the chance to expend some pent-up energy—and think.
If the ball guests had spotted Sam alone on the terrace with Juliette, they would have assumed he was in the process of seducing her … and, in all likelihood, they would have been correct.
But when the guests had discovered Nigel with her, they didn’t appear to suspect anything untoward. Rather, they likely assumed that Juliette had merely wanted a bit of fresh air and that Nigel had been good and honorable enough to escort her to the terrace and protect her from all manner of falling objects.
Sam had no one to blame for the unfavorable comparison but himself. He’d earned his bad reputation with every drunken night, every short-lived affair, every reckless throw of the dice. Likewise, Nigel’s good name was the product of a lifetime of doing the right thing: making top marks at school, following the rules, doing his duty.
Why then, hadn’t Nigel been forthright with Juliette about her uncle’s house?
He’d only told Sam that the house was occupied by a distant relative, so perhaps he hadn’t realized the connection to Juliette. But the note Sam sent him that afternoon had made the circumstances perfectly clear.
Sam had said the house was occupied by Lord Wiltmore and his niece, who wished to see proof of Nigel’s legal right to the property before they vacated it. Sam had also asked his brother to grant Juliette and Wiltmore some time—time to adjust to the news and make other living arrangements.
And Nigel hadn’t responded. Yet.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck and walked faster down the dark, mostly deserted street. Given all he’d seen and heard tonight, he had to assume that he was being manipulated and played the fool by either Nigel or Juliette. Maybe both.
He didn’t want to believe either capable of such treachery. Nigel was his flesh and blood—the wiser, older brother he’d always idolized. And Juliette … well, she was someone he’d thought could become his friend. Or something more.
