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

by Christi Caldwell

  A kestrel cried in the distance, and a chill stole down her spine as a sense of impending calamity snaked through her body

  “What is it, Miss Marsh?” Poppy murmured at her side.

  “Hmm?” The tips of her toes curled in the soles of her slipper. Her gaze lingered upon the crystal ripples that rolled across the river surface. She could now admit, the volatile feelings Jonathan roused inside had filled her with no small amount of panic. “Come along,” Juliet said. “We’ll find a more secluded area where we might sit, and you might sketch.”

  As they continued on, the young girl prattled on about what she intended to sketch, what might pose a good place in which to best view the pelicans.

  Gravel crunched beneath the slight heel of Juliet’s slippers as they made their way further down the path, toward the enormous boulders that lined the end of the trail. She paused a moment and glanced back at where Jonathan and his sisters sat with Lord Westfield and Lady Beatrice. Another frisson of unease unfurled within her, and she brushed off the unpleasant sensation, continuing on with Poppy.

  And froze.

  The breath left her on a swift exhale, and a loud humming filled her ears as her gaze locked upon a gentleman seated astride a familiar midnight black mare with equally black eyes. The gentleman expertly guided his horse down a nearby riding path. A very familiar gentleman with brown hair and so-blue-they-were-nearly-black eyes; black like Lucifer’s and a heart to match the fallen angel’s. Oh God. Her stomach roiled, and she glanced around, consumed with a desperate urge to flee. Except logic told Juliet if she were to make any sudden movement, Lord Williams’ eyes would lock on her like a practiced hunter tracking its prey.

  “Miss Marsh?” Poppy inquired.

  Lord Williams nudged his horse to a slow gallop, an entirely too-quick pace in the crowded park.

  Juliet cursed and dropped to her knees, and with infinite care motioned Poppy over.

  Poppy dropped to her haunches and joined Juliet beside the enormous boulder that fully shielded the girl’s small, slender frame.

  Juliet swallowed hard, never hating her own height more than she did in this moment.

  “What is it?” Poppy whispered. She pulled at Juliet’s hand.

  She nodded fast. “Er, I thought mayhap we might best view the pelicans and swans here,” she lied; praying her charge wasn’t practiced at identifying lies.

  “Uh-oh, well, then,” Poppy hopped up, and went to retrieve the basked she’d dropped.

  All the while Juliet prayed Lord Williams had continued on. She clenched her eyes tight, as horror upon horror revisited her. His hand on her breast. His mouth over hers. The thick, crystal candelabra she’d brought down upon his head. Then the blood. There’d been so much blood. Her breath came in quick-gasping spurts and she knew the lords and ladies passing along on the walking trail eyed her with something akin to horror. But not for all the wealth in the world could she still the panicked beat of her heart. She pressed herself even tighter against the boulder.

  Poppy called out, bringing her back to the moment. “Miss Marsh, are you unwell?”

  “I am.” Or, I will be as soon as I can be assured Baron Williams doesn’t move beyond the riding path.

  “You are unwell?”

  She blinked. What? Whatever was the girl talking about? A gleaming pair of Hessians stepped into focus and she shrieked. Her gaze climbed upward, and she swallowed hard.

  Jonathan stood, arms crossed at his chest. “Well, well, what have we here, Miss Marsh?”

  For the nearly half of an hour since Lord Westfield and Lady Beatrice had joined his outing, Jonathan had done a rather remarkable job of setting aside thoughts of the vexing Miss Juliet Marsh for the whole of those minutes. He’d attended to Lady Beatrice’s far less than stimulating discourse on the weather, and her plans for the evening, all the while priding himself on not thinking about Juliet. Yes. He’d been doing a remarkably fine job of setting aside thoughts of the bewitching miss…

  Until he’d observed her drop to her knees and scramble behind a boulder with Poppy in tow. Young ladies did not drop to their knees and steal furtive glances about. Not unless said ladies were not intending to hide some secret or another.

  As he’d sat alongside Lady Beatrice, he’d all the while eyed Juliet’s surreptitious movements, knowing it unlikely his passionate, but stoic Juliet would ever be engaged in any furtive efforts. Except, there was the whole kneeling and hiding business. And so, all his hard-won efforts to forget Miss Juliet Marsh were shattered into a million slivers of good intentions.

  Jonathan doffed his hat. “Poppy.”

  His youngest sister dipped a curtsy as though she’d just been introduced to him in Almack’s Assembly halls.

  He returned his focus to the still crouched Juliet. “Miss Marsh,” he murmured.

  Jonathan walked the remaining distance over to Juliet and Poppy. He narrowed his gaze upon the young woman. Ladies did not whisper and remain kneeling in the midst of Hyde Park. Well, mayhap they whispered, but they certainly didn’t do the both together unless there was a reason to be whispering and kneeling behind a boulder. He glanced around, but detected nothing of interest beyond the mundane sight of passing lords and ladies, gentlemen astride their horses. Yes, certainly nothing to inspire whispering and hiding, because that is most assuredly how it appeared. It appeared as though Juliet Marsh hid. He wrinkled his brow. But hid from what? Or whom? “Er, what are you doing, Poppy?” Because as his youngest sister, she’d always proven quite helpful in imparting information.

  She pointed her eyes toward the sky. “Sketching.”

  Until now.

  Now she lied. To him. Her brother. For Miss Marsh. His faithful Poppy had so quickly shifted her loyalties. But then, Juliet inspired such sentiments in an individual. He remembered back to Prudence’s claims from a short while ago, of Juliet’s injured leg. Had she been hurt? “Are you well, Miss Marsh?” He took a step toward her, but she held a palm up.

  “I’m very well, my lord.” She added almost as an afterthought, “And I trust you are also well?”

  He’d have to be one of those blind, doddering old-sort-of noblemen to not notice the guilty blush that stained Juliet’s cheeks. “Wonderful, indeed. Tell me, Miss Marsh? What finds you,” he glanced pointedly at the ground, “at this particular spot?”

  She wrapped her arms about her knees, appearing as nonchalant as a young lady taking tea in a parlor and not a young lady crouched in the dirt. “Oh, I, er…dropped something.”

  It didn’t escape his notice that she failed to rise. Jonathan knocked his hat against his thigh. “I trust it you’ve found what it is you were looking for?”

  Juliet nodded once. “Oh, yes. Absolutely,” she said hurriedly.

  “What was it?”

  She cocked her head at an endearing little angle. “What was what?”

  Jonathan motioned to the ground. “The item you dropped.”

  Juliet’s eyebrows stitched into a single line. “The item I dropped?” Then her eyes widened. “Oh, er, yes…” She glanced around frantically. “My er…” he could practically see her mind racing.

  “Your…?” he prodded.

  She and Poppy spoke in unison. “Handkerchief.”

  “Sketchpad.”

  Poppy gave a pitying shake of her head and Jonathan swore his sister muttered. “I rather thought sketchpad made far more sense than kerchief.”

  Jonathan narrowed his gaze on. “What was that, Poppy?”

  His sister waved a hand. “I’m sure you heard Miss Marsh just fine,” she said.

  Ah, God love the girl. What a devoted servant she’d become to Juliet in this short time. He sighed and looked once more to Juliet.

  “Kerchief,” she finished lamely. “It was my kerchief.”

  He supposed if he was more of a gentleman he’d be good enough to not point out the clear absence of a fragile slip of fabric. “Where is this…kerchief?” Then, his sisters and mother had despaired of him ever be
ing a truly, proper gentleman. His lips twitched when Juliet’s eyes rounded like two full-moons in her face.

  She wet her lips, the telltale gesture he’d come to note, signifying her nervousness. Her back stiffened. “It blew away.”

  Jonathan glanced at the placid lake. “What bad luck.” He furrowed his brow. “And, how very odd, Miss Marsh. I’d not noticed a wind before.”

  She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. A great, big gust. Perhaps you didn’t notice it because,” she gestured toward his party in the distance, “you were with company.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” he said somberly. Though it made absolutely no sense to him, whatsoever. They continued to study one another. “Miss Marsh?”

  She jumped. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Do you intend to sit there all afternoon?”

  Juliet eyed the ground for a long moment, as though seriously considering the possibility.

  He held out a hand, and she shoved herself up from her crouched position, and placed her trembling fingers into his. As he helped Juliet to her feet, he leaned close, closer than Society would find proper, close enough to surely earn remarks upon the scandal rags. Polite Society and the scandal columns could all go hang. “You, Juliet, have left me with many questions this day.”

  She paled, and the dusting of freckles over her cheeks stood out stark in contrast. “I don’t know what you mean, Jonathan.”

  “That,” he whispered softly. “Is my point exactly. They stood so close, he detected the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the pulse pounding wildly at her neck. Oh, God, I want to kiss her. Here. Now. What manner of spell had she weaved over him?

  Juliet reeled backward and reached for Poppy’s hand.

  He considered that protective movement, and took a step toward her ready to demand answers to the questions she’d left him this day.

  “You should return to your party, my lord. Poppy and I intend to sketch. Isn’t that right, Poppy?”

  His unfaithful sister folded her arms and gave a short nod. “We do.”

  Humph, and just like that all the years of ribbons and ribbing and various other indulgences and he was dismissed by his easiest-mannered sister with a simple ‘we do’.

  Juliet dipped a curtsy; not a very familiar curtsy but rather the deep, formal ones bestowed upon one of a lofty position, and started off in the opposite direction.

  His jaw tightened, and he ignored the lords and ladies passing by with their murmured greetings and curious stares. Of course, as the title Earl of Sinclair dated somewhere around the 1300s, most would consider the title Sinclair to be one of those lofty positions.

  But bloody hell, this was Juliet and when he was with her, he’d never been the Earl of Sinclair, he’d simply been Jonathan. With the title-grasping mamas and eager widows, he’d not simply been Jonathan in more years than he could remember.

  Sin. Sinclair. The earl. The Earl of Sinclair. Never, just Jonathan.

  Until the governess with her fiery and emotion-laden eyes.

  And she’d dipped that goddamn, deep curtsy and hurried after her charge like she was nothing more than a…a…His brow wrinkled. Well, hell, she was a governess.

  Not, just a governess. He’d never dare disparage her with such a snobbish judgment. He could not. She’d evinced more strength and honor than most women of his acquaintance. A lady who’d readily give up her comforts as a young lady and take upon the working role of governess all to see the rightful restoration of her cherished property…well such a woman could never be ‘just-a-anything’.

  He forgot all his greatest intentions of returning to his sisters, trusting they were in good care with Westfield and Lady Beatrice. Instead, Jonathan trailed a short distance behind Juliet and Poppy. He noted her faint limp as she moved, a limp he’d only first noted in passing, and wondered what had happened to her. Only, his curiosity was stifled by the way in which she continued to steal glances over her shoulder. He glowered at her at her fast-retreating form. Her swift, jerky movements spoke to the concerted effort she made to avoid him. His gaze narrowed. Juliet’s eyes flitted about the crowded park, all the while Poppy prattled on at her side.

  Juliet would avoid him like he was a thief in the Dials? Fury quickened his steps. A trio stepped into his path. Jonathan cursed.

  “Do you go about damning your friends now, in the presence of ladies and children, no less,” a sardonic voice mused aloud.

  Jonathan, who’d been driven by a single-minded determination to go after Juliet and Poppy, blinked several times. He managed a sheepish grin for his friend Lord Drake who held a babe of nearly two years in his arms, and his brown-haired wife, Lady Emmaline. Jonathan sketched a short bow. “Lady Emmaline, it is ever a pleasure.”

  Emmaline returned his smile. “Sinclair, a pleasure as usual.”

  And he’d agree under most circumstances it was a pleasure to see the young lady who he’d schemed with to force Drake, who she’d been betrothed to since the age of five, to the altar. This, however, was not one of those times. Of a nearly like height, Jonathan peered over Drake’s shoulder. He caught sight of Juliet and Poppy upon a patch of grass at the edge of the river.

  “Have you lost something?” Drake asked with a heavy dose of humor to his question.

  Yes, my good-sense, my mental faculties.

  Drake, more intelligent than most English noblemen combined and returned war-hero, unfortunately would not miss the glances Jonathan could not keep from stealing over his shoulder. He followed his gaze to where Juliet sat beside Poppy in the distance.

  Jonathan tugged at his cravat as a dull wave of heat climbed up his neck. As the refined Earl of Sinclair he didn’t stare. And he most assuredly did not stare at young ladies he’d hired as his sisters’ governess. Even if said young lady with her sunset kissed curls had haunted his dreams since their meeting several days past.

  Drake folded his arms across his chest. “Are you off to see your sister?”

  Emmaline’s eyes lit. “Oh, is one of your sisters present?”

  Only one he cared to visit at the moment, the rest he’d abandoned to poor Westfield.

  “I should so like to—”

  Whatever Emmaline had been about to say ended on a squeak as he jerked his chin forward. “Come along. Poppy would be bereft if she didn’t see you.” He didn’t pause to see if they followed but strode onward toward Juliet.

  “Perhaps you might slow your step a bit for the lady,” Drake drawled.

  “Hmm? Er, uh, yes, my pardon.” Jonathan adjusted his stride. “I also thought it might be a good idea to have you meet Miss Marsh, my sisters’ newest governess.” He cleared his throat. “After all, if you’re to know the young lady.”

  Emmaline nodded in agreement, a sudden interest in her warm brown eyes.

  Juliet glanced up as he descended upon her and Poppy. A frown marred her freckled cheeks. He bristled, not liking in the least that he should be so eager to see her when she should appear so indifferent, even bothered by his appearance.

  Poppy jumped up. “Drake!” she cried.

  Drake executed an elegant bow, even with his daughter, Regan, in his arms. “It is ever a pleasure, my lady.”

  Poppy giggled and pointed her gaze to the sky. “You’re such a rogue.” She looked to Emmaline with an unfiltered smile. “He is a rogue, you do know that, my lady?”

  Emmaline nodded solemnly. “It appears, my efforts to reform him appear wholly unsuccessful.” Then her gaze slid over to where Juliet stood stock-still and silent. “Hullo, I gather you are…”

  “Ju…er Miss Marsh,” Jonathan cut in. “Miss Marsh, my dear friends Lady Emmaline, the Marchioness of Drake and her bounder of a husband, Ashton, the Marquess of Drake.”

  Drake offered a lazy smile. “You mustn’t go bandying my Christian name about the ton. It’s a rather—”

  “Horrid?” Poppy supplied.

  He winked at her. “Horrid, indeed. It’s a rather horrid name.”

  Juliet dropped a curtsy. “I
wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” she said with a smile. “It is a pleasure,, my lady,” she said to Emmaline.

  Emmaline looked down to where the sketchpads sat open upon the ground and started. Almost reflexively she stooped down to retrieve a book. She glanced up. “Have you done this?” she marveled.

  Poppy nodded excitedly and plopped down beside Emmaline. She jabbed a finger at the remarkable likeness of a goose with a small fish clenched between its teeth. “She did.” The girl flipped the page to a modest home with brick front, a stone walk, and rose bushes lining the path.

  He started, transfixed by the image.

  “And she did this one,” Poppy was saying, her words coming as if from a distance.

  Jonathan could not take his eyes from the country home. His breath lodged in his chest, and he looked to Juliet.

  Rosecliff Cottage.

  As an artist, she’d managed to capture the modest size of her home, but also the almost fairytale like quality of the dwelling which seemed better suited to fey creatures and fairies and not mere noblemen bored with London Society. It was her home. And he’d taken it. Well, won it. But such a thought didn’t do anything to assuage the guilt stabbing at his chest.

  “Are you all right?” Drake said quietly beside him, as Juliet, Emmaline, and Poppy all continued to discuss her work.

  He managed a tight nod, but in truth he wasn’t all right. He was humbled and shamed and furious with himself for being the bloody bastard who’d won her precious home. “Fine,” he said curtly. Only, on the heel of his furious musings was a sudden thought. What if Sir Albert Marshville had sat down to a different game of whist, with a different gentleman? What if someone, other than Jonathan, on a mere slip of chance, had won Rosecliff Cottage, and through their win—the right to know Juliet Marshville?

  Because his brave, spirited Juliet would have surely sought out that nameless bounder. He balled his hands into fists at his side, knowing it preposterous to feel this unholy rage for some fictitious gentleman in some imagined scenario.