“You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Katie scolded. “And my name is Miss Katherine Anne Parker.”
Juss’s knowing gaze met Oona’s. “I’m sorry, Miss Katherine,” he said, his eyes going back to Katie. “You are correct, I should not say such things.” He bowed, “I am Mr. Justin Taylor, a friend of your mother’s.” He pulled off his black leather riding glove and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
Katie’s face lit up like a pyrotechnic display at this unprecedented demonstration of male gallantry. She gave him her small hand with as much dignity as a queen and dropped a graceful curtsy, her eyes sparkling up at Juss in a way that said she was half-way enslaved already.
And then both sets of eyes, one gray, one blue, turned to Oona.
“Well,” she said, hiding her fear and excitement behind a grudging tone, “I suppose you might as well come in and have tea. Before you go.”
∞∞∞
Juss couldn’t stop staring at her as she led him into the house, stopping first in a small parlor to settle her daughter at a table covered with pages of childish handwriting.
“I’m going to take Mr. Taylor into the kitchen for a moment. I want you to finish your work, Katie.”
“And then we’ll finish making the buns for the carolers?”
“First I shall bring you a cup of tea and a biscuit.”
The little girl’s eyes were fastened on Juss in a way that was adorable.
“But Mama, I want to take tea with you and Mr. Taylor. And maybe he could help us with the buns—and the carolers?” She gave Juss an ingratiating smile that would be devastating the male population for miles around in a few years.
“Katie.” Oona did not raise her voice, but her daughter complied—albeit grudgingly—to the soft authority.
Oona shut the kitchen door and then spun on her heel, her arms crossed tightly across her body. “What are you doing here?”
Juss took a step toward her and she took a step back. This time he didn’t stop; he kept walking until her back was against the kitchen door, her eyes and mouth wide as she stared up at him.
Juss claimed her mouth with the pent-up hunger of days. She hesitated for a split second—that felt like an eon—and then thrust her hands into his hair and launched her body into his arms, their teeth clicking painfully as their tongues fought, the coppery tang of blood baptizing their violent passion.
Juss’s head spun as he gripped her soft, fleshy bottom, holding her pressed to his erection while he savaged her mouth, Oona giving as good as she got.
Far too soon she came back to herself and pushed away. “Put me down,” she hissed, her lips swollen, slick, and bruised.
It was an agonizing struggle to force his arms to comply with her command.
Once she was at liberty, she brushed off her skirt with shaking hands and then pointed to a small table, her entire body trembling. “Sit,” she ordered, spinning on her heel and stalking toward the stove.
Juss dropped into the chair and drank in this evidence of her lust for him, even if she felt nothing else. Which he simply could not believe.
“Tell me why you are here,” she demanded as she put the full kettle on the stove and then turned.
“I would have been here sooner but it was a bloody miracle that I found you,” he snapped, recalling the frantic, almost mad sickness that had come over him when he’d returned to London to find her gone.
“I looked for you at your dreadful lodgings and learned you’d paid up before even leaving. I went to LeMonde—oh, by the way,” he said, “the thief was apparently one of your coworkers—a woman named Marie?”
She gasped. “Marie? But she was the one urging Madam to be kind to me.”
Juss shrugged. “Guilty conscience. Anyhow,” he shook himself, getting back to the point, “LeMonde had nothing about you except that address.” Juss let all his frustration show in his frown and growling tone. “You just bloody disappeared without a trace—after what—” he broke off and scowled at her. “Good God, Oona! How could you be so cruel?”
Her face crumpled at his accusation and she raised her hands to her flaming cheeks.
“Oh hell,” he muttered, lunging to his feet so fast the chair hit the wall. When he took her in his arms she melted against him. “Why, Oona?” he asked as he stroked her delicate shoulders, holding her close while he showered kisses on her beautiful hair, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her; of strawberries.
“Because Katie is—”
“Katie is?”
“She is Venable’s daughter.”
“Yes, that is what I assumed,” he soothed, staggering back when she thrust away from him.
“What?”
The door to the kitchen opened a crack. “Mama? Is aught amiss?”
“Katherine Anne Parker,” Oona began, but the door snapped shut. Oona whipped around and glared up at Juss. “How did you know that?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.
He shrugged. “Just by looking at her.” He grimaced at whatever he saw on her face. “You likely don’t want to hear this, but she looks a lot like Venable.” Juss took a step toward her but she moved back. He shoved a shaking hand through his hair. “Lord, Oona. What the devil is wrong with you? Are you still in love with him?”
“What?!”
They both looked toward the door at the sound of feet thundering on the other side, but the door remained closed.
“Are you?” he demanded.
“No, of course I’m not in love with him.”
“Then why the hell did you disappear? Do you hate me that much? Is that why—”
She lunged toward him and punched him in the arm. “I love you, you—you.”
“Ow!” He grabbed his shoulder. “What was that for?”
She shook her head back and forth, her expression agonized. “I don’t—I don’t know,” she wailed.
Juss grabbed her, holding her struggling body in an unbreakable embrace. “Oona, stop it, love. You’ll hurt yourself. And—and I love you and don’t want you hurt.”
She froze. The room was silent but for the pounding of his heart in his ears and then, “You l-love me?”
He squeezed her until it had to hurt. “Why do you think I’m here?” He released her and she gasped in a deep breath as he took her stubborn little chin and forced her to look at him. “If you love me, why did you leave?”
“Because—” she jerked her head toward the door, tears dribbling rather than streaming now.
“Because of Katie?”
She nodded.
“But. . . why? Did you think I would judge you for having a child outside of wedlock?” he asked in disbelief.
“His child.”
He frowned and then it dawned on him. “Do you really believe I’d take out my dislike of Venable on a child?” He dropped his hands from her body and stepped away from her. “Is that what kind of man you think I am?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, her eyes raw.
Juss ground his teeth, hating that he was the source of her anguish. “I guess we’re even now. I believed you would get me sacked and you believed I could be so petty.”
Her chin wobbled and then she launched herself at him and he closed his eyes as he held her tightly. “She is your daughter, Oona,” Juss said, blinking rapidly for some odd reason. “How could I not love your daughter when I love you so much it hurts?”
Epilogue
Ten Years Later
London
Oona could not pull her eyes off Katie as she swirled around the dancefloor, gazing up at the young man who gracefully led her through her very first waltz as a married woman.
“Are you sad?” A strong arm linked with hers.
Oona glanced up at Juss, who towered beside her, breathtaking in his formal black-and-white attire. At forty-two he was more handsome than ever, his thick, inky hair silver at the temples, but his eyes the same brilliant blue.
“A little,” she admitted, leaning against his
now familiar, but still intoxicating body. “But I always knew she would fly away some day.”
“Well, she’s not flying far, at least,” he said with a chuckle. “And I trust Anthony more than any other young man I’ve ever met,” he added.
Oona had to agree. Anthony Burke had begun life at the bottom and worked his way up under Juss’s tutelage. He was seven years older than Katie, but the two had really been a case of love at first sight. Oona was grateful her oldest daughter was going to a man as strong, loving, and dependable as Juss.
Of course Justin Taylor was also arrogant, conceited, high-handed, dictatorial, and a half-dozen other things Oona couldn’t recall at the moment. The fact that they were both strong willed had meant the last ten years had often been tempestuous. They’d argued, fought, and then made up with the same fervor they seemed to do everything together. Oona sometimes wondered if the passion in their marriage was to make up for those ten years between their first and second meetings.
“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”
Oona smiled and pressed herself against him, even though they were in public. “You, of course.”
He chuckled, the sound smug and satisfied. “I know you are thinking of me,” he said. “But what exactly are you thinking?”
“How much I love you.”
His body stiffened and Oona couldn’t help smirking at the reaction those three words still had on this powerful man after all these years.
“You’d better,” he said gruffly.
Oona’s gaze slipped back to Katie. “I’ll miss her, Juss.”
“Me too, sweetheart.” He rubbed her shoulder with his big warm hand.
“The house will feel empty.”
“You mean other than Julian, Frances, and Albert?” Juss asked ironically. “Have you forgotten about our other three noisy and demanding children?”
Oona smiled. “All right, so it won’t seem empty.”
“I was thinking we might go someplace for a week—just the two of us, maybe somewhere in the country.”
Oona tilted her head and looked at him. He was smirking in that wicked way of his, his eyes hooded and glinting.
“Oh? Where would we go?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
Oona bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Hmm. A trip to the country—I’m not sure. . .”
“I would make it worth your while,” he murmured.
“Is that right?”
“Mmmm hmm.”
“Are you sure you could afford me? I’m very expensive.”
He sucked in a breath, his gaze so intense it felt like there were only the two of them in this room full of hundreds. “I remember the day you accepted my rude, vulgar offer as if it were yesterday, Oona. But I feel like it’s long enough ago that I can confess I would have paid at least five times as much to have your company for a week.”
“As it seems like a time for confessions, I have to admit I was a trifle disappointed in your much vaunted business acumen that day.”
He barked out a laugh. “Oh, and why is that, darling?
Oona grinned up at him and then—quite deliberately—winked. “Because, you foolish, wonderful man, you could have had me for free.”
Thank you so much for reading A Second Chance for Love!
If you enjoyed Juss and Oona’s story, then keep reading for a sneak peek at
THE MUSIC OF LOVE …
Chapter One
Bude, Cornwall
1816
Portia Stefani pulled her gaze from the moonlit countryside beyond the carriage window and stared at the well-worn letter she clutched in her hand. She’d read it so often that she’d memorized it, but she still needed to look at the words.
She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?
Dear Signore Stefani,
The Stark Employment Agency forwarded your letter of interest regarding the teaching position. Naturally your skills and experience are well above what I’d hoped for in a piano teacher. It is my privilege to offer you a one-year term of employment. I require only two hours of instruction per day, six days per week. The remaining time would be your own.
Whitethorn Manor is in a very remote part of Cornwall, so if country living is anathema to you the position would not suit.
The letter’s author—Mr. Eustace Harrington—went on to offer a generous salary, suggest a start date and give instructions for reaching the manor. Nowhere in the letter did it say Ivo Stefani’s wife would be an acceptable substitute if the famous pianist was unavailable, uninterested, or . . . dead.
Portia’s hands shook as she refolded the brief missive and tucked it into her reticule. It was foolish to submit to her nerves, especially after she’d already accepted the private chaise, the nights in posting inns, and the meals Mr. Harrington’s money had provided.
She groaned and rested her aching temple against the cool glass, exhausted by the relentless whirl of thoughts. Her head had begun to pound several hours earlier and the pain increased with each mile. Weeks and weeks of living with her deception had taken its toll on both her mind and body. Thank God it would soon be over, no matter what happened.
The argument she’d relied on most heavily—that this deception was her only choice—had lost its conviction the closer she came to Whitethorn Manor. But that didn’t make it any less true. Portia had no money, no family—at least none who would acknowledge her—and her few friends were almost as poor as she was. She had nothing but debt since she’d been forced to close the Ivo Stefani Academy for Young Ladies.
She laughed and the bitter puff of air left a fleeting fog on the carriage window. Even now the ridiculous name amused her; Ivo had always possessed such grandiose dreams. It was unfortunate his dreams had rarely put food on their table, even before he abandoned her and their struggling school.
Although the small academy had been his idea and bore his name, her husband had pouted whenever Portia asked for help teaching or tutoring.
“Such work is fine for you, cara, but my ear bones,” he would shudder dramatically at this point, “they are in danger of breaking and bleeding if exposed to such abuse.”
“And how will your ear bones feel when they have no place to sleep?” Portia had asked on more than one occasion.
But Ivo had only laughed at her fears—and then run off with a woman whose very existence meant Portia’s ten-year marriage was nothing but a sham. Not that any of that mattered now. Ivo was gone and the humiliating truth with him; it no longer signified what he’d done or with whom he’d done it. What mattered was that Portia needed to survive and the only way she could do so was teaching music.
She could have found work in London, but the prospect of starting all over again in the same city had left her feeling tired and hopeless. If she hadn’t been destitute she might have considered the offer to share a house with three friends: Serena Lombard, Honoria Keyes, and Lady Winifred Sedgewick, all teachers from her now defunct school.
Unfortunately, all Portia had to offer anyone was debt, and most of it not even hers. But to the dunning agents who dogged her day and night it hadn’t mattered that Ivo had generated the mountain of bills without her knowledge.
No, she’d done far better to accept this well-paid position, even though she’d resorted to despicable—and probably criminal—deceit to get it.
The chaise shuddered to a halt and her thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.
Portia peered out the window and caught her breath. It was not a country house; it was a mansion: an imposing Palladian-style structure that loomed over the carriage, its massive portico and immense Venetian windows dominating the moonlit sky.
She had arrived.
∞∞∞
The footmen had just removed their plates when Soames entered the dining room.
“I beg your pardon, sir, it appears the music teacher has arrived.”
Stacy Harrington took out his watch. “It’s quite late and no doubt he’s exhausted after his
long journey. I’ll wait until morning to speak to him. Show him to his chambers and have Cook send up a tray.”
His aged butler did not move.
“Is there something else, Soames?”
“Well . . .”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Well, the thing is, sir, it’s not Signore Stefani.”
Stacy frowned at his usually imperturbable servant. “What is it, Soames?”
“It’s Signora Stefani,” Soames blurted.
“Very well, so he brought his wife with him. I wish he’d let us know, but tonight they can stay in the rooms you have prepared and tomorrow we can move them to a larger apartment.”
Soames cleared his throat. “Er, it is only Signora Stefani.”
His Aunt Frances, who’d been inching closer to the edge of her seat with each new piece of information, could no longer contain herself. “What on earth does he mean, Stacy?” she asked, rattled enough to call him by his childhood pet name in front of a servant.
Stacy didn’t mind the slip. In fact, he preferred “Stacy” to “Eustace”—which he’d always thought sounded like an undertaker’s name.
He turned from his aunt to his hovering servant. “My aunt wishes to know what on earth you mean, Soames?”
The butler’s parchment-like skin flushed. “It appears Signore Stefani is . . . well, he is dead, sir.”
His aunt gasped and Stacy sat back in his chair.
“Are you telling me there is a dead body in the carriage, Soames?”
“Oh no, sir, no.” Soames stopped and stared a point somewhere beyond Stacy’s left shoulder, blinking owlishly. His brow creased and he fingered his long chin. “At least . . .”
“Well?” Stacy prodded when it seemed the ancient man had calcified.
“I understand she is alone in the carriage, sir. No maid or, er, body.” He glanced down at his hand. “She brought this with her and claims she is here for the music position.”
Soames held out a folded piece of paper and Stacy took it. His own handwriting stared back at him; it was the letter he’d sent Ivo Stefani offering the famous pianist the position. Stacy put the letter aside.
A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella Page 10
