A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella

by Minerva Spencer

  Yes, all of that was true.

  And of course you’ll also get seven nights with him, the small voice added gleefully.

  The teacup shook badly in her hands. All night long she’d tried to ignore the heavy throbbing that pulsed between her thighs at the mere thought of spending seven days with him. She’d hoped it would be easier to manage her desires in the cold light of day, but it turned out she burned for him no matter what time of day or night. The sorry truth was that the thought of seven days and nights with him was every bit as enticing as the money and beautiful clothing.

  Oona had forgotten many things in the almost three decades she’d been alive, but one of the things she’d not forgotten was the sight of Justin Taylor’s mostly nude, muscular body thrusting into one of the female servants who’d swarmed him like bees to a hive.

  She’d meant what she’d said in the carriage—none of the viscount’s servants had liked her. It hadn’t been just their natural suspicion of a governess—a woman who was neither fish nor fowl—it had been Oona in particular.

  Most of their standoffishness, she now knew, had been her fault. She’d just turned seventeen and had been concerned about establishing her authority in the viscount’s household so she’d assumed haughty, cool manners that were not her own. Rather than gaining her respect, her behavior had made her unpopular.

  Juss, on the other hand, had easily been the most popular of the thirty or so servants; men respected him and women adored him, and he seemed to fit in wherever he was. Even the viscount’s haughty butler had deferred to him, although he’d been a mere groom.

  Of course Juss Taylor could never be a mere anything.

  He’d looked as comfortable in the modiste shop today—this one owned by a real Frenchwoman—as he’d always been in the masculine confines of the stables.

  Madam Thérèse and her clerks had fluttered around him like a host of butterflies around a particularly tasty flower. He’d lounged in the big armchair, which the wily dressmaker kept especially for her male guests, his big body clothed as elegantly as any peer’s.

  Not that you would mistake him for a member of the aristocracy. Not only was he too big—too muscular and powerfully built—but he brimmed with an energy that was the antithesis of the languid aristocrat. Even before he opened those full, sensual lips and spoke in that oddly rough accent a person knew there was nothing effete about Justin Taylor.

  Oona poured the last of the tea from the pot, her mind going back to the day she’d stumbled upon Juss and his mystery lover. She’d been a maiden, an innocent seventeen year-old who’d had no idea what her body’s fierce reaction had meant. The night after she’d seen them in the linen closet she had touched herself for the first time, the result both explosive and mortifying and, ultimately, something she wanted more of. So when Edward came to her bedroom not long after Juss had been discharged Oona had allowed him in. It had been madness to believe what he’d told her: that he’d grown to love her and would marry her once his mourning period was finished. But she’d been so lonely and young and he’d been handsome and so very persuasive.

  Over the years she’d wondered what Edward would have done if she’d turned him away? Although his approach had been light and lover-like, she now suspected she would have been looking for a new position sooner rather than later if she’d denied him entry to her bed.

  As usual, thinking about Edward left her feeling gnawed on and hollow.

  So Oona pushed Viscount Venable from her mind. Instead, she turned her attention to the beautiful garments that lay on the bed, and to the man who’d bought them for her.

  Seven

  Justin didn’t know whether Oona Parker would be waiting for him, or not. He also didn’t know whether he wanted her to be there, or not. His anger at her—an anger that had simmered for almost a decade—had cooled over the past twenty-four hours.

  What about Clara? the implacable voice of vengeance demanded.

  Clara would have been discharged whether or not Oona Parker said a word, and Juss knew that for a fact. No matter how much he wanted to blame her, it wasn’t Oona’s fault Clara had died in childbed in a St. Giles hovel while Justin was picking oakum to pay for his stupidity.

  It was Venable’s fault, not Oona’s, not Clara’s, and not even Justin’s.

  When the carriage stopped Juss opened the door without waiting for Charles, his footman.

  “I’ll go up,” he said, already on his way.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Juss climbed the stairs to the top floor of the dilapidated building two at a time, eager to end this, one way or another.

  As to what he’d feel if she wasn’t on the other side of this door? Juss sighed; he’d already chased these thoughts around in his head for far too many hours. He was bloody exhausted by the subject.

  He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his knuckles made contact with the wood. Juss gaped. He’d selected her clothing from Madam Thérèse’s small collection of ready-made garments, but he’d not seen her in anything except her coat and cloak. The visit to the modiste had been traumatic enough for her; he’d not wanted to humiliate her by making her model for him while the curious eyes of the dressmaker looked on.

  He’d known the green wool of her traveling costume—a shade or two darker than her eyes—would look well with her fiery hair, and he’d been correct. She was a small woman but curvy and soft in all the right places. At just a touch over six feet Juss towered over her. He reckoned she couldn’t be too much over five feet.

  “You look lovely,” he hesitated and then added, “Oona.”

  She startled at the sound of her name and Juss thought she was on the verge of chastising him for such a liberty but must have recalled she was supposed to be his mistress.

  “Thank you,” she said, swallowing hard and drawing his eyes to the high neck of her spencer and the delicate white skin of her throat. Something about the prim and proper sight made his mouth fill with moisture. She’d been lovely dressed in rags; she was breathtaking with clothing that fit and flattered her.

  “I’ll g-get my cloak.”

  Juss followed her into the dismal but impeccably clean room she called home. On the narrow pallet bed were two bags, her cloak, and the ridiculous fur muffler. The rest of the room was bare, as if nobody lived in it.

  They both reached for the cloak at the same time and their hands met. Juss felt a lightning bolt arc between them, but knew it had to be the product of his lustful imagination as they were both wearing leather gloves.

  She jerked her hand away and he took the cloak and held it up for her, her eyes cast down as she turned and allowed him to lay the heavy garment on her slim shoulders. Juss caught a whiff of her scent mixed with that of wool and fur. He knew it must be his imagination, because she smelled just like strawberries.

  Christ. He needed to take himself in hand or he’d make a bloody fool of himself.

  He picked up her two bags and strode toward the door without speaking.

  Charles took the bags and fit them in the rear luggage box while Juss helped her into the carriage and then settled across from her.

  “Here.” He handed her one of the three heavy lap robes his butler had been wise enough to include.

  “Thank you,” she said, arranging the heavy robe over her lap.

  “Lift up your feet,” Justin said, tucking two of the heated bricks—which were still hot enough to almost burn through his gloves—beneath her small boots.

  Her eyes went wide as he took her leather-clad ankles and lowered her feet onto the bricks and she was breathing hard when he looked up. Juss knew it was because of his touch, but whether she was shocked, disgusted, or aroused, he wasn’t yet sure.

  “Oh,” she said, her remarkable coral lips curving into a smile and her eyelids heavy with bliss. “This is the first time my feet have been warm in weeks, Juss. Thank you.” She wiggled a little in her seat, as if burrowing in.

  The unconsciously sensual gesture sent eno
ugh warmth through his body that Justin didn’t need bricks.

  ∞∞∞

  Well, she was here, so she might as well make the best of it.

  Oona looked up to find him watching her, and her face heated—meaning her cheeks would be flushed. It was a reaction she absolutely despised but could do nothing about.

  “Do you think we will encounter more snow?” she asked. After all, there was nothing more harmless than discussing the weather.

  He gazed out at the flat gray day and shrugged. “It is cold but the sky is clear. Of course nobody can know what it’ll be like in seven hours. Don’t worry,” he said with a faint smile. “I shan’t endanger your health. If it begins to snow heavily we shall take shelter.”

  “I’m not worried; I was just thinking this trip must be important if you are willing to brave such unpleasant weather.”

  “It is,” he said.

  “I never asked where we were going.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Oona sighed and he gave a low, amused chuckle, but seemed disinclined to share their destination.

  “Well, if you can’t tell me where I am going perhaps you might tell me whether it will be a big party, a small party, a—”

  “There will only be five guests, plus our host.”

  “Who are the other guests—or is that something you can’t tell me, either?”

  “You won’t know any of the other guests.”

  “Why? Because I am an impoverished drudge at a modiste shop?”

  “Ex-drudge,” he corrected with his standard smirk.

  “Very droll.”

  “You won’t know the other guests because they are men of business,” he said.

  Oona frowned. “Men of business and their mistresses?”

  He shrugged.

  “I feel as if you don’t want to tell me about this house party.”

  “You are very astute.”

  “Very well. Can you tell me how long we will be there?”

  “Three nights at the party, the rest is travel.”

  “Goodness, that seems a long way to travel for such a short visit.”

  He smiled—the smile that made her palm itch to slap him. And made other parts of her itch, as well. Oona ground her teeth; her body’s reaction to this man was extremely unfortunate and she would need to be vigilant over the next few days.

  “What are you thinking to turn you such a charming shade of pink?” he asked.

  “You’ve bought my person, not my thoughts,” she snapped.

  His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing, which only made her feel like a shrew.

  “I apologize, that was uncalled for,” she said, ashamed at how grudging her voice sounded. She tried again. “You appear to have done well for yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you tell me how all this,” she waved a hand to encompass the sumptuous coach around them, “came to pass?”

  “I will,” he said, “And I won’t even charge you for the privilege.”

  Oona scowled.

  He chuckled. “I’m sorry, that was ill-done of me, especially after you apologized so charmingly. I won’t charge you, but I’ll want your story in exchange.”

  The thought of telling this man about her humiliating past made her cringe.

  “I can see my offer doesn’t appeal to you.”

  “I’ve done things I am not proud of—as must be obvious from my current situation.”

  “You mean being in the carriage with me right now?”

  Oona couldn’t tell from his expression whether her words had offended him or—

  “Don’t worry, you’ve not offended me,” he said, his mind-reading ability making her more than a bit nervous. “I’m not asking you to tell me everything, Miss Parker, just the general outline of how you ended up in LeMonde’s employ.”

  Oona stared into his unreadable eyes for a long moment and then nodded. “Very well, my story for yours.”

  “I must warn you, my tale is a long and twisty one, are you sure you wish to hear it?”

  “What else have we got to do?”

  “Yes, precisely. What else would we do?” His innuendo made her face heat like she was a schoolroom miss, rather than a fallen, disgraced woman.

  Thankfully, he ignored her furious blushing. “After I left Viscount Venable’s house so ignominiously—without a letter of recommendation—I found myself with a pregnant wife and no way to support her.”

  “You’re married?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were as hard as sapphires. “I am a widower.”

  “Oh. I’m so sor—”

  “As I’m sure you know, finding a position without a recommendation is a . . . well, shall we say, challenging proposition. A permanent position was elusive, but I found temporary work at the few inns around Halstead,” he said, naming the village that had been closest to the viscount’s estate. “Unfortunately everyone knew I’d been the viscount’s employee and nobody was willing to risk offending him by offering me permanent employment.”

  Oona would have wagered—had she been a wagering woman—that his expression was accusing, but that was ridiculous. What had Oona ever done to him?

  ∞∞∞

  Juss had to take a moment to calm himself. Something about looking at the woman largely responsible for the worst period of his life was making his temper—which he usually kept under iron control—slip.

  How could she sit there looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth?

  Juss wanted to ask—to demand, really—if she believed she’d acted morally all those years ago. He wanted to hear her justification, whatever it was.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d known it would be painful.”

  He could have told her it wasn’t pain he was feeling, but a decade’s worth of fury. But he bit back the ragged, pointless emotion and continued what he’d started. “I decided the only way I could find work was to move to London.”

  Even now—so many years later—the memory of that horrible journey made him queasy. Clara had been deathly ill and shouldn’t have travelled, but they’d had no choice. He’d bought them seats on a stagecoach that was so top-heavy and overloaded it broke down mid-way to London and they’d had to walk for miles in the freezing weather, which is when Clara had taken ill.

  “The journey was wretched, but London wasn’t much better,” he said grimly. “We lived with Clara’s brother because I couldn’t earn enough to pay for a roof and food. After a few weeks I accepted an offer from my brother-in-law to help him with a job moving some toff’s house. It turned out I was actually helping steal the contents of the house—or at least that is what the constables who caught us and dragged me off to Newgate said.”

  “Oh no,” she breathed, her posture tense, her body slightly forward. “Did you tell them that—”

  Juss snorted at her naiveté, and then held up a hand when he saw her offended expression. “I’m not laughing at you,” he lied. “I’m laughing at the thought of trying to explain anything when my two compatriots made a clean escape and left me holding the bag.”

  “What happened?”

  “I expected to be hung or at least transported as the house had belonged to a well-off doctor who hadn’t been amused to return home to such a fiasco, but I was lucky because the Runners talked to my brother-in-law.”

  “He came forward and told them the truth?” she asked. Her expression told him that Juss had reaffirmed her belief in humanity. He almost felt bad about setting her straight.

  “Well, he didn’t exactly come forward; he’d been arrested on another job.”

  Her face fell. “Ahh.”

  “Yes, ahhh, indeed.”

  “So they released you?”

  “Not quite. I’m afraid that—after almost four months—I’d managed to get myself into trouble.” He had no intention of clarifying. “They decided I needed to engage in uplifting activities like peeling oakum if I was ever going to grow out
of my criminal tendencies.”

  She looked like she was afraid to hear his answer, but she asked, “How long?”

  “Two years.”

  She sucked in a breath, her expression one of horror. “What about your brother-in-law?”

  “Ah, well, Gazzer wasn’t quite so lucky.”

  “His name is Gazzer?” she interrupted.

  Juss couldn’t help smiling; she was adorable. “Er, no. His name was Gary, but everyone called him Gazzer.”

  “I see,” she said, her perplexed expression telling him that she didn’t see. “So what happened to him?”

  “Gazzer received one-way passage on an ocean-going vessel, which was harsh, but better than doing the hangman’s dance.”

  “Oh, Juss, that’s dreadful! What about your wife?”

  “My wife died in childbed while I was in gaol.”

  Her lips parted and one of her small, gloved hands reached out—almost as if she wanted to offer him comfort—but it jerked back quickly at whatever she saw in his eyes.

  Juss held her gaze for a long moment before continuing. “When I was released, I knew there would be no chance of ever finding gainful, legal employment, so I joined His Majesty’s Navy, which was not choosy about sailors in a time of war. Like every other volunteer I was given a shilling and two months wages in advance. And then I was off on my adventure.” He paused and then asked, “Why are you shaking your head, Oona?” He decided he like the taste of her name on his tongue, and also the way she stiffened when he said it.

  “Men have far more choices in life than women but not all of them are choices I would want.”

  Juss was startled by her observation and didn’t have an immediate response.

  “It must have been frightening,” she said quietly.

  Her expression was so open, that, for once, he didn’t taunt or mock. “Yes, it was bloody terrifying, pardon my language. I’d barely gotten my sea legs when I learned the Ajax was on its way to a new engagement.”

  Her lips curled up at the corners and the effect was beyond charming. Good God. Had he said that warming his bed wasn’t part of her duties? What an idiot.