Patrina leaned forward in her seat. She flattened her lips into a disapproving line. “They also say—”
“I’d not taken you as one to pay attention to the gossip rags,” he said with a dry twist of humor to his words.
His mother held a hand up, staying Patrina’s response, and looked to Jonathan. “Do you find humor in this, Jonathan?” Faint disapproval underscored her quietly spoken question.
He climbed to his feet, no longer able to bury his annoyance under the veneer of affected disinterest. “I’ve done nothing to merit your disapproval,” he bit out. “My actions are no different than other respectable gentleman.” He didn’t indulge in any more spirits than his fellow peers. Unlike the young gentlemen recently out of university, he knew when to quit the gaming tables.
Mother and Patrina shared a look. His neck burned at the almost pitying glance they passed between them. He gritted his teeth. He needed no one’s pity.
“I know you were hurt,” Patrina intoned quietly.
Jonathan wandered over to the window that overlooked the London streets. He tugged back the curtain and stared down into the bustling thoroughfare at the passing lords and ladies. “I wasn’t hurt,” he said. Not any of which he’d admit to, anyway, not even to his well-intending family. The fact that Patrina, his young, unwed sister had sensed the level of his disappointment when Abigail had chosen Redbrooke’s suit over his own, chafed.
Mother folded her hands at her waist. “I don’t know the circumstances surrounding your courtship of the now Viscountess Redbrooke, but I do know it is time you take your responsibilities to the title far more seriously, Jonathan.”
“I’m well-aware of my responsibilities,” he assured them.
Patrina and Mother exchanged another glance.
From within the pane he detected his mother rise from her seat, amidst a flutter of silver skirts. “This isn’t solely about your responsibilities,” she said softly. “This is about your well-being. You’re not happy.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “And you believe a wife will make me happy?” A wife would place demands upon his comfortable life. It would require him to forsake the life of pleasure he’d come to know and enjoy. No, a wife would be nothing more than a hindrance.
Patrina rushed to defend Mother’s claims. “I’ve never known you to partake in gambling, and drinking, and…and…all manners of inappropriate behaviors. Not to this recent degree.”
Well, then his sister knew him far less than she actually believed. He returned his attention to the window. “These matters are not at all appropriate discussion for respectable ladies.”
Patrina snorted. “It most certainly is appropriate. You are my brother. I care very much about your happiness.”
“Will you think on what we’ve said?” Mother prodded.
He’d think about it for the remainder of his visit, until he stepped out into the street and returned to his clubs. “Certainly,” he assured them. He was in need of a mistress. He’d not set one up in a long while. Perhaps that would alleviate some of his boredom.
Mother studied him a long moment, as if searching for the veracity of his single-word pledge. “Now, there is the matter of the governess.”
He sighed, but then, he required a governess more than a mistress at the moment. “I’m certain you’ll find another.”
She always did.
Mother shook her head. “I’m not finding another.”
“You’re not?” Patrina and Jonathan said in unison.
“No.”
He furrowed his brow. His youngest sisters were twelve, thirteen, and fifteen, and still all in need of a governess. Mother could not simply let them go on as…as…governess-less young ladies.
“You are, Jonathan.” she said, with great relish in that pronouncement.
He blinked as her words cut into his thoughts. “I am, what?” he blurted.
She smiled. “Why, you are finding the girls a suitable governess this time.”
Chapter 2
As she sat at the edge of the chintz sofa, Juliet Marshville knew with all the absolute certainty of one whose world had fallen apart once before, that her world was about to crumble.
“You did what, Albert Marshville?” The breathy whisper tore from her.
Her brother downed his brandy and glared at her over the rim of his now empty glass. He reached for the bottle. “Do not call me Albert Marshville, as though you are my mother and I’m nothing more than a small child.”
Juliet bit back the urge to keep from pointing out with the way he had been carrying on in London, gaming, whoring, carousing, well, he’d been behaving no better than an indolent lack-wit. She closed her eyes to dull the fury thrumming through her with a volatile life force. “Surely you did not gamble away Rosecliff Cottage.” Because the cottage, though small, had been the sole place she’d ever considered home in her twenty-two years. It had been there she’d learned to swim, ride her first mount, and all the while as the loved, favored daughter of her father, the now deceased Baronet Marshville.
Albert scoffed. “Rosecliff is insignificant. It’s no matter.”
No, to Albert it had never mattered. Nothing had mattered beyond her brother’s own selfish pleasures and desires.
She wondered that he bore the same blood as their honorable, now departed father. “You must simply speak to this gentleman who you lost Rosecliff Cottage to, and explain—”
“And explain what? That my shrewish, spinster sister imagines spending the rest of her days there?” Albert snorted. “You’ll wed, Juliet.”
Her mouth went dry at this familiar topic of discussion. “Of course I will.” Or she still hoped with that foolishly optimistic sliver of her heart that still beat, that there would be a husband for her and a handful of happy babes.
“Lord Williams is growing tired of waiting for you.”
Gooseflesh dotted her arms. Lord Williams. With his noble brow and thick chestnut hair, he’d earned the oohs and aahs of nearly every lady in the county. Juliet, on the other hand, had gone to great lengths to avoid the gentleman since he’d first shown up, friend of her brother, recently of London, and visiting his recently acquired property in Kent. It was surely foolish on her part, a product of far too many Gothic novels, but something of him raised an unholy terror inside her. “I do not care to speak of Lord Williams.” She’d rather continue on the subject of Rosecliff Cottage.
Albert gestured with a hand upon his hip and his leg stuck out in front of him like he was an English version of Boney, himself. “Well, talk on him, we will. You see,” he pushed away from his spot over by the window and strolled over. “He is the sole gentleman good enough to set aside concern with your being lame.”
She winced at the mention of the leg she’d shattered as a girl of three and ten and he eleven. They’d climbed up the sturdy branches of the wych elm tree, up to the crown where the branches diverged, and he’d knocked into her. She’d tumbled to the ground and her leg had been badly broken. As she’d lain whimpering and crying on the ground with him standing above her grinning, she’d realized the extent of her brother’s hatred for her.
Juliet tipped her chin up a notch, not willing to let him see the effect his cruel taunt had upon her. “You can hardly know the thoughts of all gentlemen, Albert, and certainly not the honorable gentlemen. Not when you keep company with such odious, foul creatures.”
“Silence!” His shout boomed off the wall, more reminiscent of the young boy who’d kicked his toy soldiers around the room. Then, he seemed to remember himself. He smoothed his palms over the front of his jacket and drew in an audible breath. “As I was saying, Lord Williams would have you, if—”
“Lord Henry will never allow it,” she interjected.
“Lord Henry is dead.” He spoke so matter-of-fact; a chill stole down her spine.
“He’s not.” A captain in the Royal Navy, Lord Henry’s ship had gone lost at sea several months back.
“Yes, he is,” Albert, said merciles
sly.
She’d never met Lord Henry Thine, Papa’s godson, and the Marquess of Bath’s second son, but she believed in her heart she’d know if the one last hope she held onto for freedom from Albert’s machinations was, in fact, buried at sea.
Though her wishes for his safe return were not solely self-serving in nature. Her father had spoken with great fondness of his godson.
“Either way,” she went on. “Lord Wallace would never force me to wed where I’d not want to.” Though in truth, she couldn’t say anything about her other guardian, Lord Wallace, with any real confidence. He was the brother of a mother she no longer remembered.
Albert snorted like one of the pigs in the pen at Rosecliff Cottage. “Lord Wallace is one foot in a grave and wouldn’t turn away a baron. Not for a cripple.”
Juliet leaned back in her seat and yawned into her hand, knowing it would infuriate her brother. “We will not likely know if I can make a match if you insist on denying me a Season.”
“Rubbish!” he barked. “It would be an utter waste of funds to launch a faulty ship like you off into a sea made of diamonds of the first water.”
Brava, on that unexpected, but not unexpectedly cruel, quip from her usually lack-wit of a brother. Juliet had tired of this tedious discussion. She held a staying hand up. “I’ll not wed Lord Williams. I will, however, insist you speak to this Earl of Sinclair and manage to get back that which you’ve lost.”
He slashed the air with his hand. “Sinclair collects winnings like he collects mistresses. He’ll not part with the cottage, even if it is a horridly modest dwelling.”
Her eyebrows dipped. Yes, she but knew of the earl’s name from the scandal sheets. This Lord Sinclair sounded like just the manner of gentleman her callow brother would keep company with. A string of mistresses, indeed. Juliet took a deep, steadying breath, or else risked burning her brother’s ears with a stinging diatribe. That would result in little good. “Well, then, I shall speak to him.”
Albert slammed his fist into his palm. “You’ll do no such thing. I had a good night at the tables last evening. I’m confident my fortune has turned.”
She closed her eyes and prayed for patience, detesting a world in which the Albert Marshvilles and Earls of Sinclair controlled the coffers, fates, and hopes of the women unfortunate to grace their lives. Knowing her efforts futile, Juliet still said, “Please, Albert, do not. No good can come of your gaming.”
He scoffed. “I’ll not answer to you, my spinster sister.”
Her lips turned up with droll amusement. “Two and twenty years of age hardly places one in the spinster status.”
Very nearly a spinster, perhaps. But not a spinster.
Albert ignored her, and without another word beat a hasty retreat.
Juliet surged to her feet. A soft curse split her lips and she began to pace. The slight bend in her lower right leg made her movements somewhat jerky.
Her brother would squander all their father’s hard-earned wealth and property in little time. Though wrong in most regards, Albert had unfortunately been right when he’d made his earlier claims about Uncle Horace.
The man, nearing his seventieth year, couldn’t be bothered with his long-departed sister’s daughter. He could no sooner put a stop to Albert’s philandering, wastrel behaviors than Juliet could.
A knock sounded at the door. She glanced up as the kindly butler, Peter. He cleared his throat. “Lord Williams to see you, Miss Marshville.”
A curl fell over her eye, and she blew it back. Blast, blast, and double blast. She gritted her teeth. “Please, if you’ll tell him—”
“Tell me what, Juliet?” Lord Williams said with far too much familiarity from behind Peter’s slightly drooped shoulders.
Peter edged reluctantly from the room, leaving her alone in the black-eyed devil’s
company.
“Lord Williams,” she forced herself to greet. She eyed the door behind him. “My brother…” Oh, where in hell was Albert? It certainly spoke to her desperation that she desired even his miserable company.
“I’m not here to see your brother,” he murmured. He advanced forward, a beast stalking its prey.
She folded her arms across her chest and held firm her ground. She’d not let this foul cad drive her back in fear. “I’m afraid I was just…” Her words ended on a gasp, as he placed himself in front of her, and reached a hand out to shove back a strand of hair that had fallen over her brow.
He caught it between his fingers. “Lovely. The color of sunset.”
The baron’s unoriginal likening of her red hair to the sunset was about all one could expect of a gentleman of his clearly limited intelligence.
“Release me, my lord.” Lest suffer the heel of my good, much stronger leg upon your instep.
Instead, he raised the strand to his nose and inhaled deep. “Ah, I do not think I shall, Juliet. I’ve wanted you for so very long.”
She grimaced. She’d wanted to avoid his company for so very long, so they had that somewhat in common. “My brother will not approve of your familiarity, my lord.”
The feral grin on his thin lips chilled her through as she realized with a dawning horror that her brother had, in fact, encouraged this particular meeting.
Dead. She would kill him dead.
Juliet swatted at Lord Williams’ hand. “Remember yourself, my lord.”
“I am remembering myself. I’m remembering how very much I’d like to kiss your bow-shaped lips and explore the warm cavern of your mouth.”
She nearly gagged at the descriptive picture he painted. It would appear the baron who’d made fast friends with Albert nearly a year ago was even less a gentleman than she’d originally believed. Not that she’d had much value on him as being any level of gentleman. Her knowledge of noblemen had shown them all to be a singularly self-absorbed, self-indulgent lot.
Lord Williams leaned forward, and she recoiled. “Whatever are you doing?” she hissed.
She hopped backward, no easy task with her sometimes difficult to maneuver leg.
“I’m kissing you.”
He took a step toward her.
Juliet stuck a hand out, and the movement seemed unexpected to the baron for he stopped. “You are not kissing me.” She’d rather kiss that snorting pig in the pen back at Rosecliff Cottage.
His grin widened, displaying two slightly crooked rows of teeth. “I intend to. Just as I intend to make you mine.”
Make you mine. He spoke like an old, conquering lord from days past, and suddenly she felt like a bloodthirsty woman from long ago, for she ached for that broadsword in her hands.
It seemed she needed to be a good deal clearer for the baron. “Lord Williams, I would not wed you for anything in the world.” There. Unoriginal, but she gathered quite clear in terms of her feelings.
At the darkening glint in his blue-black eyes, Juliet took several steps backward, and placed the small upholstered chair between her and the baron, a rather flimsy barrier, but nonetheless a barrier.
“I did not say anything of wedding you,” he said at long last on an ice-cold whisper.
Oh. He hadn’t? She wrinkled her brow. She’d thought he said—
“I’d make you my mistress.”
Juliet laughed. She laughed until her shoulders shook with the force of her mirth, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, goodness, it really wasn’t terribly funny. Just the opposite. But he seemed so very certain, and it was all so ludicrous she couldn’t keep the laughter from tumbling from her mouth. When she at last managed to rein in her laughter, she dashed her hands over her face and brushed back her tears. “No, my lord. You’ll do no such thing.”
His face contorted with barely suppressed rage, and he took another step toward her. “Your brother has made it clear, I’ll meet with little resistance.”
That gave her pause. She’d always taken her brother for a sniveling coward, but he still valued the pretense he maintained as dandified fop. It wouldn’t do to have a sister
who was mistress to Lord Williams, or any gentleman for that matter.
She shook her head, and felt compelled to say once more, “I’ll not become your mistress.” She didn’t have any grand hopes for a love match, but neither did she have so low expectations as to embrace the life of a whore for the foul letch.
Lord Williams tugged at his lapels, and peered down his crooked nose at her. She’d venture it had broken once or twice before, and knowing him as she did, could well-understand how such an injury had come to be. Twice. “I am doing you a great honor in making you my mistress. Surely you know with your leg no decent gentleman will have you.”
His words rolled over her like nothing more than a drop of rain she brushed from her skin. If he mattered, if he were someone more than this cruel, wastrel bastard then his words may have hurt more. Never from this man.
She inclined her head and adopted a somber tone. “Why, thank you for the honorable offer. I am quite flattered, but must politely decline.”
He lunged across the floor and she gasped. Her slightly slower leg knocked into the small rose-inlaid table beside her and slowed her retreat. The crystal candelabra wobbled upon the surface but righted itself. Lord Williams took advantage of her ungainly attempt to be free of him. He reached out and clasped her wrist in his, then yanked her toward him.
Juliet tugged her hands back, but the baron held firm. “My lord,” she bit out. “Remember yourself.”
He lowered his head, and she silently cursed at the overwhelming scent of brandy that wafted over her face. He was clearly cup-shot. “But I do remember myself, Juliet. I remember how very much I’d like to make you mine, and how much you’d like me to make you yours.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No. I. Do. Not.” With her deliberate utterance, she could not paint a clearer picture for the gentleman than if she were to use the charcoals and pages of her sketchpad.
He pressed his mouth to hers, and she gasped. The baron used her shock to his advantage. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, hard, punishing, demanding. She bit down on the tip of his tongue, but a rumble built in his chest and filled her mouth as she realized he seemed to delight in her struggles. Lord Williams released her hands and wrapped his arms about her. She wrestled against him, but he only tightened his hold against her ineffectual efforts to be free of him. His harsh breathing filled her ears, and filled her with a growing sense of desperation. She shoved at him, but he persisted. The baron brought his hand up between them and found her breast.
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 4) Page 2
