Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 4)

by Christi Caldwell

  Of course, Albert owed Lord Williams money, surely for lost wagers, and he’d offered her as his whore. Her skin crawled like so many spiders had found a home upon her skin, and she rubbed her arms to drive back the chill inside her. “You wastrel. You are an odious, horrible—” she gasped as he shot his hand out and wrapped his fingers tight around her wrist. He squeezed hard enough to rob her of breath.

  The earl’s servant took a deliberate step forward, and her brother released her with sudden alacrity. He eyed the footman a moment, and then lowered his head close to hers. “You’ll become nothing but Sinclair’s whore.”

  And because she knew it would enrage him, she smiled and said, “Perhaps, but at least it would be my choice.”

  He raised his forearm, and the footman took another step forward. Albert’s hand fell back to his side, and with a final glare for Juliet spun on his heel and left.

  She looked after him a long moment, a familiar sadness filling her at this apathy her brother carried for her. Then, Peter handed her valise over to the waiting footman, and she promptly shoved thoughts of Albert to the furthest recess of her mind.

  Peter proceeded to wring his gnarled hands together. Juliet walked over to the old servant took his hands in hers, staying the movement. She leaned up and placed a kiss on his wizened cheek. “I shall miss you, Peter.”

  He cleared his throat. “And I you,” he said gruffly.

  Lillian resumed weeping her noisy little tears. Juliet turned her attention to the young maid who’d been a friend to her these years now. Peter handed a crisp, white kerchief to the maid who took it, and dusted it over her cheeks. “F-forgive m-me, miss. It’s j-just that I’ll m-miss you so. You’ll be be-better there, I know that.”

  That was good, since Juliet herself didn’t trust that. She’d never say, as much to the kind girl or the maid would surely dissolve into a fat puddle of tears on the foyer floor. She offered a gentle smile for her maid, and claimed her hands. “Promise you’ll send word to me,” she said quietly.

  Lillian nodded. “Absolutely, miss.”

  Juliet swallowed. She’d not miss Albert. Nor even the London townhouse so loved by her brother or the fine items filling this empty home. Everything that mattered had already been lost; her Papa, Rosecliff Cottage, and now, this, the servants who’d become almost a defacto family to her over the years.

  Filled with a sudden, unexpected reluctance, Juliet turned to the waiting footman.

  Peter pulled the door open, and bright sunlight flooded through the entranceway. She held her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the blinding rays that streamed onto the white marble floor.

  And with just ten steps, she walked out of her old life, and into the new life that waited her. Granted, with the arduous role of governess to three young ladies, but the prospect of it filled her with an unexpected excitement. A sense of purposefulness when she’d grown accustomed to living the life as a kind of invisible sister to Sir Albert Marshville. There would have never been a Season, and most likely never a husband or family of her own, but now she would have this.

  The driver hopped down from his perch atop the black, lacquer carriage that surely cost more than all the items in her former chambers combined. He pulled the door open and held out a hand.

  She murmured her thanks and placed her fingertip in his, allowing him to hand her inside. Momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark confines of the carriage. Juliet blinked several times and shrieked.

  The Earl of Sinclair’s hard, sculpted lips turned up in a slow, inviting smile. “Hello, Miss Marshville. We meet again.”

  Jonathan appreciated the internal battle that seemed to rage within Miss Marshville. She caught her full lower lip between her teeth and nibbled at the delectable flesh. Her gaze alternated between the just closed carriage door and him.

  Then she appeared to prefer the devil within to the devil outside, for she settled onto the opposite bench. “My lord,” she said through tight lips.

  “Never tell me you’re displeased, Miss Marshville?”

  She folded her arms across her chest, plumping her small breasts, and bringing his attention momentary downward. “I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily pleased, my lord, my lord. My lord!” she snapped when he continued to stare.

  Jonathan jerked his gaze upward with another grin. He usually preferred his women rounded in all the places a woman should be rounded; full-breasts, generous hips, an ample derriere. Suddenly, Miss Marshville’s breasts like small apples appealed to him the same way that forbidden fruit had surely appealed to the doomed Adam.

  “May I speak freely, my lord?”

  He waved a hand. “Please do, Miss Marshville.”

  “I’ll not become your lover,” she stated with a bluntness he’d come to appreciate in the mere handful of hours he’d known the lady.

  Jonathan reclined in his seat and chuckled. “Which is fine, as I’ve not asked you to be my lover, Miss Marshville.”

  Her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a faint moue of surprise. “Oh,” she blurted. Crimson color stained her cheeks. “I’d thought…forgive me…I…” she fell promptly silent.

  The astute, though innocent young lady had clearly noted his interest. “May I speak freely, Miss Marshville?”

  “Please,” she said with a curt nod.

  “I’d not ever force my attentions upon you,” he said quietly. He might be a rogue and enjoy the pleasures of a woman’s body, but he enjoyed his women warm and willing and begging.

  She stiffened, and brushed her hands over the front of her modest, green skirts. “I’d never presume anything, my lord.”

  “Ahh, but you did. Twice now. First last evening when you slapped me and now with your talk of lovers.” At that last word, the red of her cheeks deepened to the crimson shade of a summer’s apples, which only made him think of her delectable breasts…and he fought back a groan.

  Over the years he’d become a rather apt read of character. It had saved him from title-grasping misses attempting to trap him into marriage for no other reason than their desire for the title of countess. The lovely, if defiant Miss Marshville had affected a rather masterful showing of antipathy where he was concerned.

  Jonathan leaned ever-closer so a mere breadth of a hand separated them and lowered his head toward hers. “Perhaps I should be more direct, Miss Marshville. I’d not have kissed you, unless you wanted it.”

  Her mouth opened and closed like a poor trout just snagged from his well-stocked lakes. The spirited Miss Marshville might condescend to him with her very eyes and the subtle nuances of her speech, but her heightened color told an entirely different story. One that told her body’s awareness of him.

  Ahh, you are not as indifferent toward me as you’d have me believe, sweet. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “And you may be assured, Miss Marshville, you would want it.” He trailed his eyes over her face. “I would kiss the proper from you. I would kiss the frown from your lips. Kiss you until your knees knocked together with weakness and your hands,” he snared one of those hands in his and raised the trembling fingers to his lips. Her mouth quivered, as he kissed the tip of her middle three fingers. “And your hands would not be capable of anything but twining about my neck, with your desire for more.” His gaze fell to the creamy white skin of her neck, to where the pulse throbbed wildly there.

  “Y-you are wrong,” she whispered.

  Her hand still delicately clasped in his, Jonathan moved the tip of her fingers to that hard, pounding just below her jawbone. “Perhaps I am. But I don’t think so.” He released her suddenly and she sat there at the edge of her seat blinking wildly up at him.

  And then she scrambled backward, so quickly her back slammed into the velvet squabs. She directed her attention to the window, and promptly dismissed him. As all good governesses would do.

  Jonathan continued to scrutinize Miss Marshville. He’d never met a more spirited and biting lady. In one moment she begged hi
m with her eyes, and the next those same green pools snapped with fury. “It occurs to me that I do not know your name Miss Marshville.”

  She faced him. “My name is Juliet.”

  Ahh, sweet Juliet. One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun? Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Never a more apt name for a beauty such as she. He grimaced. By God, next thing he’d be dashing his own horrible lines of poetry to paper remarking on the dusting of freckles along her nose or the sparkle in her…

  He fought back another groan.

  The rattle of the carriage wheels over the cobblestone roads filled the quiet. “I should mention an important detail, Juliet. Going forward, you’ll be referred to as Miss Marsh.”

  “Why is that?” she eyed him the way she might a pickpocket with his hand stuffed in her reticule.

  He hooked his ankle over his knee. “Because I prefer it, Juliet.”

  Her mouth tightened. “It’s hardly proper for you to refer to me by my Christian name, my lord.”

  “No, I imagine it’s not, but I’ve never been accused of being proper, and I insist you call me Sin. Or Sinclair.” Though Sin far suited his unholy, sinful desire to lay claim to the fiery temptress.

  She bristled. “I’ll not call you Sinclair.” Pause. “And I assuredly will not call you Sin.”

  “Jonathan, then. My name is Jonathan.” Suddenly, it was very important that she call him by his Christian name. He didn’t know why it mattered, only that it did, and in a world where he was Sin to everyone, he wanted to be Jonathan to her. “At least when we meet in private, Juliet,” he demanded when she opened her mouth to protest. “I insist.” He employed the hard edge that brooked no room for argument.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he studied the distracted movement he’d come to learn indicated the young lady’s uncertainty. “To what purpose will we meet in private, my… Jonathan?”

  My Jonathan. Yes, that was far preferable to Sin, Sinclair, or Jonathan alone. “Why, to discuss my sisters, of course. I take a very involved role in their rearing.” Or he did now since hiring the delightful Juliet.

  “Do you? How very fortunate for your sisters, then,” she spoke with such droll humor, he lowered his eyebrows.

  He carried on as though she’d not uttered her sarcastic response. “We’ll meet weekly.” Only after the words left his mouth did he wish he’d taken a moment to think it through. Wished he’d insisted upon more frequent meetings. Jonathan rested a hand on his thigh. “It did not escape my notice that we failed to discuss the additional terms of your service, Juliet. That strikes me as rather odd.”

  Her fingers plucked at the fabric of the skirts. “I want my cottage back, my… Jonathan,” she said bluntly. “Beyond that I’ve not thought about much.”

  A momentary twinge tugged at his conscience. He brushed it aside, reminding himself that if he’d merely returned Marshville’s property as the young lady had hoped, then some other lord on the winning end of the baronet’s next losing hand would find himself the proud owner of Rosecliff Cottage.

  As it stood now, if the young lady, should carry out her responsibilities, Juliet would be the sole owner of the modest cottage Jonathan hadn’t even bothered to yet visit.

  He would not feel bad. He would not feel bad. Jonathan met her gaze squarely. “Your Sundays are your own, Juliet. Your chambers will be on the same floor as your charges.” Not just for entirely selfish reasons, either, but any distance between her and his sisters would be calamitous as evidenced by one or two of the previous governesses. “You’ll take private meals with the family.” That was for selfish reasons. “You’re expected to keep hours from seven until five in the evening. Your salary will be two hundred pounds a year, and you’ll have the freedom to move around the house.” Also for selfish reasons.

  She made a small choking sound. “Two hundred pounds?”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I imagine you must have questions of your own? Requests you would put to me.” In spite of his generous employment terms, the time he’d spent with women of varying ages—and he’d spent a good deal of time with women of varying ages—Jonathan had learned of an inherent greed. Even his sisters, who he’d duel the devil himself for, were oftentimes driven by ulterior motives. He sat there and could all but see the wheels of Juliet’s clever mind turning.

  “What are their names?”

  He scratched at his brow. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Your sisters. What are their names and ages?”

  Hmm, this was the question she’d put to him. Odd, indeed. He’d expected requests for more on her part. She may be his new governess, but she was still a young lady and accustomed to a comfortable lifestyle, he imagined. Well, before her wastrel brother had probably begun squandering all their wealth.

  “Poppy, twelve. Penelope,” he grinned, and remembered back to his earlier conversation with his second youngest sister. “We refer to her as Penny, is thirteen,” he suggested, knowing all the while he was wickedly setting the lady up for failure with Penny. “Prudence is fifteen. And my oldest sister, Patrina, not one of your charges, is nineteen and recently made her Come Out.”

  Juliet’s bow-shaped lips moved as though she were silently cataloging this recent information on her new charges. She nodded once. “And their interests?”

  Jonathan folded his arms across his chest, and winked. “Come now, Juliet, you do not simply imagine I’d make this an entirely easy task for you.” Not that he needed to make caring for his troublesome sisters any more difficult than it already was. “Why, would you expect me to simply turn over the cottage to you?”

  “I would,” she replied instantly.

  That damn niggling guilt grew, and knifed at his conscience. He inclined his head. “Then all you need to do is help shape them into proper, English young ladies.”

  Chapter 7

  All you need to do is turn them into proper, English young ladies.

  Juliet stared at the trio of black-curled young ladies who stood side by side like the King’s infantry, moments before battle. And by the mutinous set to their like mouths, Juliet suspected this would be a battle, indeed. She glanced over at Jonathan, whose hard lips were turned up in wicked smile, displaying his pearl-white teeth and narrowed her gaze. Oh, the lout. He thought she could be defeated so easily.

  Jonathan spread his arms wide. “Miss Marsh, your three charges.” He inclined his head. “If you’ve no further questions.” Further questions? She’d not had the opportunity to ask a one. “Then I’ll leave you to your er... meeting. Good day.”

  An overwhelming urge to charge after him and drag him back for the remainder of this meeting filled her coward’s body. She eyed the door longingly, and then gave her head a firm shake when he closed it behind him. She’d never been a coward before. Not when Albert had tipped her from the tree and left her to all but drag herself through the rolling hills bordering Rosecliff Cottage. Not when her Papa had died, and she’d been scolded for weeping. Not even when she’d learned about the loss of the cottage to the Earl of Sinclair.

  “Why is she shaking her head like that?” the smallest of the girls whispered, pulling Juliet back to the moment.

  The girl on the end, the eldest, folded her arms on a huff. “Because she’s mad, is all. Sin brought us a madwoman for a governess.”

  Oh, dear. They were a pugnacious lot. Juliet smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts. “I’m not a madwoman,” she said to the girls. Determined. Undeterred. But not mad.

  A trio of eyes fixed on her. She wandered closer to the girls. The same girl Juliet took for the eldest studied her with a narrow gaze. “Are you injured?”

  Juliet shook her head. “No. I was injured a long time ago.”

  Prudence snickered. “Oh, you’re a cripple.”

  She smiled at the girl and said, “Some might say that, Lady Prudence.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed even further. “How did you know my name?” she demanded.

  Ah,
so she’d been correct in her supposition. She merely smiled in response.

  “What happened to your leg?” the girl who stood in the middle at last broke her silence.

  Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “The long story or the short, Lady Penelope?”

  Poppy and Prudence fixed matching glares on Penelope, as if willing her to silence. For a long moment, Juliet suspected the girl might not respond, but her curiosity proved far greater. “The short.” Though her tone fair begged for the long version.

  Juliet began to walk a small circle about the room. “My brother pushed me from a tree,” she murmured.

  Poppy gasped. “That is horrid.”

  Juliet nodded. “Yes, it was.”

  Penelope snorted. “I’m certain you deserved it.”

  Her attention swung back to the girl. Their eyes met, locked, and held in an unspoken battle of the wills. She wandered back over to the girl who backed up a step, and then tossed her chin up a notch.

  Juliet paused before her. “Undoubtedly, Lady Penelope,” she said in whisper-soft tone.

  The girl swallowed hard, her eyes went wide. But she said nothing else on the matter, and Juliet considered this rather small battle won.

  She continued surveying the grand space. With its wide ceilings, Chippendale furniture, and ivory silk wallpaper, she could fit the whole lower rooms of Rosecliff Cottage within the four walls.

  “What do you intend to teach us,” Poppy murmured, eying her the way she might eye the devil come to dinner.

  “Needlepoint,” she began. “We’ll refine your singing and dancing.”

  “Prudence is a horrid dancer.”

  Prudence ground her heel into Poppy’s slipper. Tears filled Poppy’s eyes. “Well, you are. She is,” she said back to Juliet.

  “I don’t expect there is much Miss Marsh can teach us in the way of dance with her lame leg,” Prudence muttered.

  If Juliet hadn’t grown accustomed to her brother’s cruel barbs through the years, she expected those words would have hurt. Alas, young Prudence would have to dig a bit deeper to wound her. “I’ll also teach you of watercolors and art.”